


Prospects & Propriety

by juniebugg



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, Pride and Prejudice & Related Fandoms, Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Regency, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Mutual Pining, Original Fiction, Period-Typical Sexism, Regency Romance, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:34:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 17
Words: 49,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24137455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juniebugg/pseuds/juniebugg
Summary: Katniss Everdeen and her younger sister are the adopted daughters of Mr. Abernathy; a wealthy man with no biological heirs. By the rules of Panem society, an older sibling must be married before the younger can wed. In a time when women have no means of making their own living, marriage is the only way for Katniss to save her sister from destitution. She sets her sights on Mr. Hawthorne, a wealthy Capitol man who recently moved to the township of Whitley and who seems to have his eye on her, but what is she to do about the poor baker’s boy who once took a beating to save her life?
Relationships: Katniss Everdeen/Gale Hawthorne, Katniss Everdeen/Peeta Mellark
Comments: 203
Kudos: 208





	1. Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story inspired by my love of Everlark and Jane Austen’s novels. It was also spurred on by this inherent need I have to imagine Peeta and Gale wearing 19th-century clothing all the time. Anyway, I am in no way an expert on the Regency period and I include details that are not historically accurate.
> 
> The setting is an alternate England-like Panem. 
> 
> The plot is my own (Gale is not the equivalent to our angst-lord and savior, Mr. Darcy, don’t get it twisted) but this fic does borrow aesthetics, ideas, and quotes directly from Jane Austen and Suzanne Collins. 
> 
> The cast of characters is a mix of canon Hunger Games and original.
> 
> WARNING: There will be implied rape/non-con elements in later chapters. These scenes will not be explicit but this warning is here in case you find that the inclusion of these themes makes you uncomfortable. 
> 
> Thank you for reading:)
> 
> Tumblr: junie-bugg

If I've learned anything from Miss Effie Trinket, it's that sneaking out of the house is an infinitely easier route to escape than asking for her permission.

The dirt road has been baked as hot as hearthstones in the sun, so I abandon it to traipse down the sloping green hillsides instead, cutting a path through the waist-high grasses to revel in the last days of summer. 

From this high up above the valley, I can see everything. The village of Whitley lies to the west visible by the rooftops of the squat brick buildings off the main square. The rest of the countryside is peppered with cow pastures and farmland. I wish I could stay and sit here all day. I would drink in the sun and drown in the low hum of insects, though Effie has warned me of the nasty gossip that follows a lady with a tan and a set of freckles. 

A lady. I almost snort. Apparently, that’s what I am, or what I need to be if anyone is ever going to ask for my hand in marriage. The thought ruins the good mood my morning walk had put me in. I throw myself down amongst the tall grasses and begin plucking mindlessly at their stems. 

Haymitch Abernathy, the legal guardian of me and my sister, has never been one to force us into doing things we dislike. I’m allowed to ride my horse alone, hunt with a bow and arrow, and take off into the countryside whenever I please like some woodland nymph from one of my father’s old stories. If it wasn’t for Prim and my greenhouse back at home, I would probably live out here, until it got cold of course. I’m allowed more freedom than any other young girl in Whitley, but not even Haymitch can protect me from matrimony. 

My sister is excited for me. I imagine she’s fantasized about her wedding since she knew what a wedding was. To her, marriage is a romantic fairytale. A strong, handsome man of large fortune will sweep her off her feet and give her an estate to run and small, cherub-faced children to care for. To me, marriage sounds like a death sentence. The women in town say that if I’m lucky, I’ll marry for love as well as for fortune, but I never want to love someone as much as my mother loved my father, because when he died, in a way, so did she. The only person I know that I truly love is Prim. 

Primrose Everdeen, my little sister, was never the outdoorsy type like me. She’s fair, with golden blonde hair that hangs in ringlets past her slight shoulders and a face as fresh and as pure as a spring dewdrop. I’m four years older than Prim, who’s a mere twelve. We share the same parents, though we look almost nothing alike. Where she received the blonde curls and gentle blue eyes of our mother, I received the olive-toned, straight black, storm grey palette of our father. She spends her days drawing, flower arranging, and studying languages with my old tutor Mrs. Winthrop. 

“She’ll be a  _ highly  _ accomplished woman by the time I’m done with her. Mark my words,” Mrs. Winthrop had said to Haymitch days after first starting Prim’s lessons. She had been my tutor for years and had never said anything nearly as flattering about me. I never had a knack for languages, my flower arranging skills were atrocious, and fixing my posture was deemed an impossible task. Sullen Katniss Everdeen must have been a lost cause in Mrs. Winthrop’s eyes. 

I sit up suddenly, aware that I left home hours ago and I've missed half my morning lessons. I dread heading back to that stuffy room where I’m required to sit straight under the scrutinizing gaze of Miss Effie Trinket, my new tutor. She's even more overbearing than Mrs. Winthrop was though I assume that's why she was hired for me. Manners are of the utmost importance to her, seeing as she makes her living off of teaching them. She considers being late an unforgivable sin. 

With this in mind, I take my time gathering wild-flowers. There are so many at my feet, their delicate white petals peeking up amongst the grasses. I deftly craft two flower chains. One for me, which I place on the crown of my head, and one for Prim clutched in my hands. I notice some dirt under my nails and smile, wondering what Effie will say when I arrive late and grimy. 

* * *

She purses her lips and crosses her arms as I enter the room.

“Where were you?” she demands in that high-pitched voice of hers. 

“Out,” I shrug. I hadn’t seen Prim on my way in so I’m still clutching her flower crown. I offer it to Effie instead. “Flowers?” 

She squints at my offering, checking for bugs, before gingerly taking it and placing it down on a side table. 

“Katniss, I need you to take today’s lesson seriously.” Her clipped tone sets my teeth on edge.

“I always do-” I start, but Effie cuts me off. 

“Don’t  _ lie _ , Katniss. I know you don’t care for etiquette. You think it’s funny to flout decorum and damn those who disapprove.” 

She’s right. I find the entire idea of holding lessons for manners and etiquette a waste of time. I barely attend balls seeing as I’m sixteen. I’ve only been out in society for a short time and prefer to stay at home anyway. 

I glance up and realize that Effie is still talking at me.

“Are you even listening? Mrs. Winthrop was right, you  _ are  _ hopeless.” She sighs and wipes non-existent dust off of her shimmery lilac skirts. “It is imperative that you start paying attention and make some kind of progress in these lessons. A Mr. Gale _ Hawthorne  _ has recently let Templeton and is traveling here, as we speak, to take up residence indefinitely. Do you know what this could mean for you?” 

Suddenly, her annoyance towards me melts away and is replaced by a teary, almost hopeful expression. The way this woman’s emotions swing back and forth between happy and exasperated hurts my head. She comes to clasp my cheeks between her palms. 

“Mr. Hawthorne earns ten thousand a year, Katniss.  _ Ten thousand!  _ ” 

I have in fact heard of the Hawthornes. Maybe those lessons have had more of an impact on me than I thought. I was forced to spend months poring over books filled with the names and family trees of wealthy, well-known families that I had either already been acquainted with or might be acquainted with in the future. 

_ A healthy knowledge of people, especially rich people, will get you far in life _ . At least that’s what Effie preaches. 

Gale Hawthorne is the eldest son of the wealthy businessman, Ezra Hawthorne. I forget how exactly the elder Mr. Hawthorne first made his fortune but the word  _ mine  _ sticks around in my head. What his mine produced, I’m not sure. Precious gems? Gold? Coal? All I know is that the Hawthornes are incredibly wealthy and Gale being the eldest son inherited when his father died. He’s in possession of everything from the vast family fortune, to a legion of servants, to the many extravagant houses in Town. Now it seems he’s grown tired of the city and has decided to try his hand at country living. 

Good, I think. A wealthy man who’s used to the high society of the Capitol won’t last very long out here. He’ll be out of our village’s hair before the month is up. Effie must not consider this since she’s still staring happily into my face. 

“And?” I ask.

“Well, he’ll fall in love with you and ask for your hand in marriage!” She beams as if this is obvious. “If you play your cards right of course. For instance, he won’t find you very agreeable if all you do is scowl at him like you do me-” 

I jerk out of her grasp. 

Of course. Marriage. It’s one of the only things Effie has talked about the entire time I’ve been her pupil.

“Yes, Mr. Abernathy warned me that'd you'd be... avoidant. But don’t you see? That’s the reason I was hired. To teach you how to win a husband! It’s an art you know.” She sighs, probably seeing the panic in my eyes, and slips back into a tone of tired annoyance. “You’ll have to marry  _ someone _ , Katniss. Might as well marry knowing you’ll spend the rest of your life in the lap of luxury.”

She’s right, of course. There’s no way for women to make their own living. I can’t go off to university to study business or law, I can’t run my own shop, I can’t inherit Haymitch’s estate or fortune. When he dies the money goes to some estranged cousin on his father’s side. I am a woman therefore I am destined to either marry or die poor and unprotected. And Prim…

If I don’t marry then Prim can never marry. One of the rules of Panem society is that a younger sibling cannot marry unless the eldest has, meaning I must be happily settled before my younger sister can even entertain the idea of love. If I don’t get married and Haymitch goes and does something stupid like die, there will be nothing I can do. For either of us. We’d be turned out of the house and left to beg for scraps on the streets. And I will not let that happen to Prim. Not again. 

Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I spend the rest of the afternoon paying careful attention to Effie, who is trying to teach me to communicate with men via body language, long gazes, and the fluttering of lashes. 

This is the only way to save Prim, and with each horrible flutter I produce and each disappointed sigh from Effie, I feel my chances slipping away. 


	2. The Baker's Boy

Prim and I have the next day off of lessons. We’ve been homeschooled ever since we came to live with Haymitch, but the weekends are saved purely for whatever we see fit to fill them with. For me, that’s mostly hunting and being out in the woods, unless the weather is bad, and sometimes not even then. 

If I decide to stay at home I usually lounge around with a book and see what Prim is up to. It’s mostly knitting, dress-up, or playing with the ugly cat Haymitch let her keep a few years back. Prim named him Buttercup, claiming that his matted, ruddy coat matched the bright yellow of the flowers she so adored. I had wanted to drown the thing in a bucket when we caught him stealing scraps from the kitchen, but Haymitch had laughed, even picked the thing up by the scruff of his neck, and shook him around. 

“Look at this little guy, sweetheart. He’s a survivor. We can’t kill him!” He had placed the dirty, mewling kitten into Prim’s arms and the thing had hissed at me. I was worried he’d give Prim some kind of disease, but he never did. I don’t feel gratitude towards him though. Only suspicion. It could still happen. 

When I want to be alone I go to my greenhouse. Really it’s Prim’s and my greenhouse, but ever since she found maggots in the compost pile nearly two years ago, she hasn’t stepped foot in there. The greenhouse is small, maybe a third the size of my bedroom, but it’s peaceful. Especially when it storms and I can hear every hollow beat of the raindrops on its glass roof. It’s situated on the edge of the grounds by the tree line that morphs into the large forested hill behind Victor Greene, Haymitch’s estate. Over the years I’ve planted herbs, flowers, and medicinal plants I’ve found on my journeys into the woods. The plants do well here in the rows of dark soil I’ve fortified with compost and fertilizer. The whole place smells of earthy rot and there’s something about how sunlight scatters lazily through the frosted windows that calms me. There’s a nook on the far side of the greenhouse, past all the plants, where I’ve scattered some quilts and pillows on a wide triangular window ledge. It’s a perfect place to read or sleep. Or sing. 

This is the only place where I let myself sing. I don’t even do it in the woods, always afraid someone else taking a stroll will hear me or that I’ll scare away game. Ever since Prim and I were placed under Haymitch’s care, really ever since our dad died, I refuse to sing in front of others. Maybe it’s because I’m shy and I don’t like people listening to my voice swelling and breaking on the high notes. Or maybe I’m lying to myself and I don’t sing in front of others because it’s too painful to remember a time when my life was filled with music. Mountain aires, lullabies, and love songs, all sung by my father. I guess I don’t like breaking apart when there’s an audience, but when I’m alone I can shatter beneath the notes for a time, before I’m needed back up at the house.

Today, however, instead of knitting or playing hide and seek in the gardens, Prim has informed me she wants to walk to the village.

“You need new ribbons for the ball!” she announces as I button up her pastel pink dress from behind. We have servants available who help us dress or bathe or brush our hair, but I always like helping Prim myself. She looks like a tiny little princess with her frilly dress and her curls pulled back with a pearl white ribbon. In contrast, I look plain in a forest green frock and my light brown shawl. 

“I told you, Prim. I’m not going.” I struggle with the last button. Prim has been experiencing a growth spurt recently and soon she’ll be too big for this dress. I don't like how fast she's growing up. 

“I heard Mrs. Winthrop and Miss Trinket talking and they said you _had_ to go.” She’s grinning so hard I can see the slight gap between her front teeth. “Because Mr. Hawthorne is going to be there.”

Ah, yes. My supposed husband-to-be. So even Prim has heard about Miss Trinkets’ ridiculous arrangements. A man with that much money has his pick of the litter when it comes to choosing brides. I’m not ugly, but I’m no exquisite beauty either. Not like some of the girls I see around Whitley. I have no fortune of my own, really no status either besides being Haymitch’s ward and that will go up in smoke the second he dies. Most likely, Mr. Hawthorne will look right through me and move on. But the news that I’m being forced to attend the public ball worries me. The whole village will be there. Including _him_. The baker’s boy. 

Maybe some new ribbons aren’t such a bad idea. 

We turn down an offer for the carriage and instead walk along the road into Whitley's main square. My boots have barely brushed the cobblestone sidewalks when Prim is dragging me into the seamstresses’ shop. The dressmaker, Cinna Ludgate, and the tailor, I think her name is Portia Peever, both turn to welcome us. Prim tells Mr. Ludgate about my need for new ribbons and in a flash he pulls down the display from the ceiling, winking at me as he walks back to the counter. 

There are so many to choose from. Streams of all colors flutter between my outstretched fingertips, almost like butterfly’s wings. I see ribbons of frilly lace, satin, velvet, and even silk. My eyes land on a simple, white cloth ribbon with a delicate embroidered lavender pattern. I hold it up for Prim’s inspection and she declares I have to buy two in case I manage to get one dirty before the ball. 

I’ve just handed Mrs. Peever the money for the ribbons when the bell over the door rings. In walks Delly Cartwright, one of Prim’s closest friends, and her older sister, Miss Marianne Cartwright. Their father is the village shoemaker, so they’re well known and well-liked by almost everybody. Delly is Prim’s age which gives them plenty to talk about. Prim grabs a hold of Delly's hand and begins showing her the latest shipment of buttons Mr. Ludgate has displayed. 

Marianne is one year younger than me but we’ve never exchanged more than simple pleasantries. I dread small talk but from my personal experience, a trip into town wouldn’t be deemed official without at least one awkward encounter. 

“Are you coming to the ball, Miss Everdeen? You missed the last one,” Marianne asks. She’s absolutely gorgeous, with big, blue doe eyes and a pouty mouth. Her nose is small and her figure slender. She is what they call a “country belle” in Town. I know at least five love songs written about girls like her. I expect in a few years Prim will grow to be one herself. 

“The dancing was splendid. I do hope you’re coming next week,” she continues.

I hold up my ribbons in response. “My tutor Miss Trinket won’t let me miss it.” I force my mouth into a smile. 

“Oh,” Marianne’s eyes have settled on my ribbons. They’re probably a tad dull for her taste seeing as there were velvets and silks to choose from, but I like the simple flower design. The white cloth paired with the purple and green thread looks pretty. “Well, as my darling mother always says: simple never goes out of style.” She smiles up at me but the warmth doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “My sister and I are here for my dress fitting. I can’t wait to show everyone what Mr. Ludgate made me for the ball. Daddy ordered me a custom piece!” She practically squeals. The shoemaker isn't rich, but he's been known to spoil his eldest daughter from time to time. In comparison, Delly wears hand-me-downs. After bidding Marianne goodbye, I wave Prim over so we can leave. I breathe a sigh of relief as we exit the shop. I hate girl talk. 

With our main objective for coming to Whitley carried out, my feet automatically turn towards home, but Prim has other ideas.

“Can we look at the cakes, Katniss?” she begs. She’s like a little puppy. I can’t refuse, though I grow more anxious with every step closer to the bakery we get. 

I know what this is. A look at the cakes in the window leads to Prim asking to go inside. It’s happened before and I’ve been lucky enough to avoid him. He works alongside his parents and two older brothers anyway. What are the chances that he’ll be manning the counter and not the ovens in the back? 

Prim pulls me through the bakery doors and runs to press her face against the display case. I hear a call of “I’ll be right there!” from the back, followed by a grunt and the shuffling of boxes. I join Prim and am just starting to admire their selection of pastries when I hear a quiet gasp and look up. 

It's him. The baker’s youngest son. I don't know him by name but I remember him. Of course, I remember him. I can almost feel the icy sheets of rain and the hollow numbness of hunger from that horrible day as I meet his gaze. 

Our father had died three months earlier. He had been a poor wheat farmer but the income from the harvest was enough to support a small household. My mother traded plants and home remedies to supplement what our empty pockets couldn’t buy. One winter, my father had been kicked in the head by his horse. My mother did everything she could but even as young as I was, I knew he had died before he hit the ground. After that my mother stopped eating. She just sat in bed and stared at the walls while her children turned to skin and bone. I did everything to try and rouse her but it was no use. With our father dead, so too was her will to live. 

At eleven I became the sole provider of the family. I ventured into town alone to sell that damn horse, some old jewelry, and even dresses of my mother’s from her merchant days, but the money ran out quickly and there was more to buy than food. Our hearth sat cold, unused, and wanting of wood, and we resorted to rubbing ourselves raw to keep warm. We stopped attending school in the village, afraid that a teacher would see how hollow we were becoming and would whisk us away to the orphanage. I had seen orphans in the schoolyard, their faces empty and their shoulders slumped in defeat. I would never let that happen to Prim. 

We had eaten nothing but dried mint leaves in water for three days before I decided to try selling some of Prim’s old baby clothes in town. The clothes were threadbare and faded so nobody had wanted them. My arms were shaking so violently from cold and malnourishment that I ended up dropping them in a puddle, but I decided to leave them there, afraid that if I bent over, I wouldn’t be able to get back up. 

I found myself stumbling around behind a row of brick buildings. The rain had started and I was soaked to the bone. The smell of baking bread carried over the frigid air and I realized I was behind the bakery. The back door was open and I stood, trancelike, basking in the warm glow of the ovens before a thought floated through my foggy head. Maybe they had food scraps in their trash. A crust of bread or rotting vegetables, something only my family was desperate enough to eat. I lifted the tops off of the bins and my hopes died when I saw that their insides were heartbreakingly bare. 

Suddenly, I heard a woman screeching. It was the baker’s wife. She spat remarks about how she was sick and tired of people going through her trash bins and if I didn’t leave she would call law enforcement. As I dropped the lids and backed away I saw a boy peeking out from behind his mother’s skirts. I recognized him from school but we had never talked. 

With my final hope gone I slumped against a scrubby little apple tree in their backyard. My knees buckled and I slipped down into the mud. I would rather die than go home empty-handed to Prim’s gaunt face and my mother’s sickly, unblinking eyes. 

I heard a commotion from the bakery and then the ring of metal on flesh. 

“Feed it to the pigs you worthless creature! No one decent will buy burnt bread!” All of a sudden, there was the boy again, come out the back door clutching two blackened loaves. A bright red mark shone on his cheek and my heart twisted when I realized his mother must have hit him. He looked between me and the pigpen, and then glanced back towards the door. His mother had gone up to front to serve a customer. He determined the coast was clear because then he sloshed his way through puddles to get to me. 

“Take them!” he urged, pressing their heat into my skeletal hands. “Take them! Go!” As quickly as he came he was gone, back into the kitchens. I watched him disappear. After he closed the door only then did I realize what he had done for me. 

Two loaves of bread! And they weren’t even that burnt, really only the crusts had been damaged. I quickly pressed them to the skin under my shirt and hurried home. The searing heat from the loaves roused something within me. I couldn’t die. Not when I had Prim to take care of.

I dropped the loaves on the table and stopped my sister from savagely tearing a chunk off for herself. I sat her down, forced our mother to join us, and then began scraping off the blackened bits. That night we feasted on two slices of bread each, afraid so much food might make us sick. The loaves were hearty, filled with nuts and bits of cranberry. I had never tasted anything so good in my entire life. 

As I predicted, it was a teacher that found out about our situation. Upon our absence at school, she had come looking for us. She found Prim and I living in squalor with a mother that was too sick to care. I thought that was it, that we were to be sent to the orphanage now and our mother taken away to an institution, but a man by the name of Haymitch Abernathy, wealthy and lacking a family of his own, intervened. He had heard of our misfortunes from gossip around the village and had petitioned to adopt us. Our mother was eventually sent to an institution by the sea and we’ve lived with Haymitch, fed and clothed and taken care of, ever since. 

The baker’s boy saved our lives that day. Surely I would have given up and died under that apple tree if it wasn’t for the kindness he showed me. I owe him everything. And because of that, I will never be able to pay him back. 

I take him in now. He's taller than he was before. Much taller. His chubby child’s build has been replaced with an imposing stature that takes up almost the entire doorway. I guess a lifetime of hefting bakery pans and kneading dough has left him broad-shouldered and muscular. 

“Katniss,” he says. He’s surprised to see me. His voice is deep and I note that his blonde hair curls with sweat. There’s a streak of flour on his cheek and an apron tied around his waist.

“It’s Miss Everdeen,” I correct him. It’s out before I can stop myself and as soon as I say it I want to bite my own tongue off. How pretentious I must sound. It's only after Prim has begun ordering a sugar-dusted fruit tart from the case that I realize with a start that the baker's boy knows my name. 

His face is flushed and pink when he turns his eyes to me. 

“I'll take four of those cookies,” I get out. “The orange lilies.” My voice sounds weaker than normal. I hate this. I feel fragile under this boy’s gaze. And that's when I realize: he must be waiting for his thank you. For the bread that he burned and took a beating for. But I can't do it, either because Prim is with me and it would confuse her and probably embarrass the boy, or because it's been five years and the time for ‘thank you’ is over. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe he doesn't remember. He probably only knows my name because it was a source of gossip around town when Haymitch adopted Prim and I. He must remember me from then. 

He gives me a timid smile, deftly wraps the cookies in parchment paper, ties them securely with a piece of fringed twine, and hands the package to me. I suddenly feel the need to fill the silence so I blurt: “They’re beautiful. The cookies.” 

He manages to turn a shade pinker. “Thank you, I do most of the frosting around here. I made those this morning.” As I hand him the money for the treats, I assume that's it. That was the end of our conversation. But my tongue is moving again. 

“They look just like the lilies in the woods. I see them on my morning walks.” 

“Yes, exactly.” He grins and reveals a charming set of dimples. “I’ve seen them when I go to the woods to paint.” 

I don't know what else to say and Prim has started tugging on my hand. She’s probably anxious to get home so we can enjoy our treats with tea, so I give him one last look and utter one last thank you before heading back out into the crowded square. 

“Do you know him?” Prim asks as we begin walking towards home. 

“No,” I say, a little relieved to be leaving. I can't catch my breath and my heart is racing like it does when something frightens me. “I don't even know his name.”

“Well, I've never seen you be that talkative with a stranger.” She beams. “Wait until I tell Mrs. Winthrop!” 

Is that what he is to me? A stranger? I shake the thought from my head.

He knew my name. The very least I can do is learn his.


	3. The Ball

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katniss attends the Whitley ball and we meet some new characters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed Madge's last name to Brattleby. Undersee just doesn't roll off the tongue :p

Apparently, Marianne Cartwright isn’t the only one Mr. Ludgate has made a new dress for. The package arrives at Victor Greene early one morning during breakfast. I’m gnawing on a piece of toast smothered with strawberry jam and chatting with Haymitch when Miss Trinket bursts into the room squealing. 

“Oh, Katniss,” she sighs. “It’s finally here.” I don’t notice the package clutched in her grasp but I do lift my head when Lavinia, my favorite of our servants, places a large platter of sausages on the table. I assume Effie means this so I nod encouragingly at her and stab two with the prongs of my fork. 

Effie doesn’t unwrap the dress from it’s packaging until we clear out of the dining room. She even makes me rinse my hands with soap, afraid I have leftover grease on my fingertips, before she dares let me stroke the fabric. It’s been draped over Effie’s arm when I get my first good look at the thing. 

The dress is made of pure white silk and the bodice has been hand-stitched with hundreds of tiny seed pearls in an elegant pattern. The bell-shaped sleeves leave my collarbones and I good swathe of my back exposed. Effie helps me dress, even slipping a matching set of gloves over my forearms before making me twirl in front of the mirror. I watch as the layered skirts flare and shimmer like a flower opening in the moonlight. I’m stunning, shrouded in virgin white. 

I look like a swan. 

I look like a bride. 

Suddenly, the bodice is too tight. It’s strangling me as I reach to tug the strings loose. The ribbons I bought with Prim are too plain for this dress. Effie thought ahead though and places a velvet drawstring bag into my trembling fingers. Inside is a dainty silver headpiece and a pair of earrings. They’re both encrusted with white glittery gemstones and the same seed pearls sewn onto my gown. 

“This is too much,” I wince. I stuff the jewelry back into the bag and practically throw it at Effie. “It’s a public ball, Miss Trinket. There’s no need for all this finery. I’ll look ridiculous.” 

Public balls are usually more casual than private. Like all public balls in Whitley, this one will be held in the village assembly house where sometimes if you look close enough, you can find pieces of straw on the ground. A simple frock should do just fine.

“Nonsense, everybody’s dressing up!” Effie responds, beginning to tighten my corset strings once more. 

“Katniss?” I hear Prim’s voice. She’s cracked my bedroom door open to catch a glimpse of my dress. Upon seeing the pearls her eyes widen in awe. “You look like a princess,” she whispers. 

“I look nothing like myself.” I shake my head, but Prim runs over and begins caressing the silk of my hem. I smile. Prim is still too young for balls, but even I know this is all backward. She should be the one dressing up and going to dance. She’s the one who would actually enjoy it. I ask Effie what shoes she’s purchased to go with the dress and I sigh internally when she reveals a pair of dainty white slippers. Heels would have defeated me. 

There’s a loud guffaw from the hallway and I look up to see Haymitch has come to join the fun. He’s cracking a joke about how we should get a nice long look at the dress now while it’s still clean when I slam the door in his face. 

* * *

The day of the ball finally arrives. From mid-morning to late afternoon, I’m lathered, buffed, brushed, powdered, and painted until my skin and hair gleam under the candlelight. The servants who dress me, Octavia, Venia, and Flavius, gush about what sort of splash I’ll make. 

“You’re absolutely gorgeous, sweetie.”

“No man can resist _this_.”

“They’ll be lining up to dance with you!”

Effie sweeps into the room donning her own finery: a spring green dress with pink accents. I’m reminded of a hummingbird. She admires the way light scatters through my jewelry and how my hair has been pinned up exactly the way she asked for. She presses a hand to my shoulder, turning me around so I can admire myself in the floor-length mirror. 

Upon seeing my reflection, my breath catches in my throat. I look ethereal. The white silk and powder dusted skin lend itself to the illusion that I’m glowing from the inside out. I glitter like the incendiary tail of a shooting star. 

As Haymitch ushers Effie and I into the carriage, something heavy settles in my stomach. No matter how hard I try to blend in, I will fail. This thought leaves me equal parts giddy and nervous.

Upon entering the dance hall I crane my neck above the crowd to catch a glimpse of Mr. Hawthorne. He’s at least four inches taller than any other man in the room and is so finely dressed that he’s easy to spot. I note he has the same coloring as me. Dark, black hair. Olive skin. Storm grey eyes. We could be cousins, only I know from extensive studying of his family tree that we’re not. When there’s an opening, Haymitch introduces me to Mr. Hawthorne and his party. I curtsy as Effie has taught me, and smile when Mr. Hawthorne gives a slight bow in return. 

“It’s an honor to meet you, Miss Everdeen.” He’s dressed in a pair of dark trousers and a matching coat with silver buttons. He’s brought along three friends from Town who he introduces as Mr. Finnick Odair, Miss Annie Cresta, and Miss Johanna Mason. They seem pleasant enough, except for Miss Mason, who keeps glancing about the room and wrinkling her nose. I can tell she’s not impressed, but the least she can do is to try and hide her disgust. 

The assembly house is one of the oldest buildings in town. Situated on the far side of the square, its shape makes it look more like a barn than a dance hall. On bitter winter days, we shelter livestock here. I expect people from the Capitol are accustomed to dance halls with marble pillars and windows that don’t rattle every time there’s a slight breeze. 

Effie discreetly bumps my elbow which I translate as: _say something._ I’m left scrambling for a conversation topic. 

“How are you liking Templeton so far, Mr. Hawthorne? I hear the library is one of the finest in the country.” 

“Yes, it is. Though I regret to say it’s wasted on me.” 

“You don’t read, sir?” I try doing that flutter thing with my eyelashes and don’t hear Effie groan. I assume it was sufficient. 

“Oh, I know how to read, of course,” Mr. Hawthorne laughs warmly. “But there always seems to be so many other things to do. I’m more of an outdoorsman, myself.” 

“I have to agree with you, Mr. Hawthorne,” Pipes in Effie. “Spending time outside is far more enjoyable than sitting indoors with a stuffy book.” I want to roll my eyes but somehow exercise enough self-control to stop myself. Effie hates everything about the outdoors. Bugs, rain, mud, pollen, too much sunlight. And you can read outdoors if you really want to. It's not forbidden. But I have an idea of where she’s going with this. 

“Miss Everdeen practically lives outdoors, don’t you dear? With all those trips into the woods you make?” 

I nod. “Yes, I take a stroll through the countryside every morning.” 

“She’s quite proficient with a bow, as well. An excellent huntress,” Haymitch says over his drink. All eyes in our social circle suddenly widen. 

Hunting is not a normal pass time for a lady. They probably expected flower picking or basket weaving, not shooting animals and preparing their hides. I can feel the anger rolling off of Effie beside me. She had wanted to keep my questionable hobbies a secret, no doubt assuming Mr. Hawthorne would be unimpressed. I assume the same and am preparing a scathing verbal takedown of Haymitch to be unleashed as soon as we get home . . . but there’s no need. 

“You must be quite talented then,” Mr. Hawthorne says before the awkward silence becomes too long. “You should join Mr. Odair and I on a hunting trip. I wouldn’t turn down having a guide who knows these forests.” Mr. Odair smiles warmly and agrees that he’d be delighted to have me along. 

Effie quickly composes herself and says: “She would love that, sirs. Thank you for such a kind offer.” The group chats about the fine weather we’ve been having but eventually disbands, melding into the ever-shifting crowd of people. 

“You did well, Katniss.” I hear Effie whisper before she’s flitting off to go talk to somebody else. Haymitch has disappeared, probably to get another drink, and I’m left alone in the crowd. I guess “well” is all that I could hope for really, but I don’t think too long on my accomplishment as I watch Mr. Hawthorne talk with almost every young lady in attendance. When the music eventually starts, I know his companionship will be highly sought out on the dance floor. 

As I watch Mr. Hawthorne and his party making their way about the room I feel the press of eyes along the nape of my neck. I look up to find the baker’s boy staring at me. When our eyes meet he quickly looks away, continuing a conversation with one of his brothers and a group of friends. I’m suddenly reminded of my promise: that I'd learn this boy’s name. 

I find my friend Madge Brattleby in the crowd. She’s wearing a beautiful pink dress that matches the natural color of her lips. Her golden hair is pinned up and dotted with wildflowers. She looks like a spring goddess. 

“There you are!” She beams. “I didn’t know you were coming to see me.” I hug her and pull her off to the side, away from listening ears. 

Madge is the only daughter of Mr. Joseph Brattleby, Whitley’s mayor. She has one older brother, who joined the army, and ever since his departure three years ago we’ve been close friends. Being the mayor’s daughter, her status is high enough that it’d be improper if she attended the public schoolhouse, so occasionally our tutors hold group lessons. We’ve practically grown up together. 

“Do you see that boy?” I motion towards the back of his head, hoping she understands who I’m asking about. There’s a chance Madge doesn’t know him, but while she is my sole friend, I know she has many others besides me. If she doesn’t know him personally, perhaps she knows his name. 

“You’re going to have to be more specific, Katniss. I don’t know who you’re pointing at.” I duck my head and try to describe him as best I can. Her eyes slowly fill with recognition. 

“You mean Peeta Mellark? The baker’s youngest son?” _Peeta Mellark_. I let his name bounce around inside in my head. “Why do you ask? Was he rude to you?”

“Wha-no!” I exclaim. “Is he rude?” 

“No, actually. Peeta’s very sweet.” She smiles knowingly. “I’m just not used to you being interested in men.” 

“I’m not,” I say, crossing my arms. “Interested in him, I mean.” 

“Sure, Katniss.” Her eyes twinkle. 

I want to throttle her. I’m not interested in Peeta Mellark. All I know about him is that he bakes, he paints, and he’s kind. 

_And that he saved your life once_ , a voice in my head whispers. 

I’m not interested in him. But I do owe him. 

Suddenly, I feel a light tap on my shoulder and turn, half expecting it to be Peeta drawn to Madge and I by the sound of his name. Instead, I’m confronted with Mr. Odair asking me for the first dance. I’m so surprised that my answer of “Yes!” comes out half an octave higher than normal. 

“Splendid. I’ll see you on the dance floor then.” He bows towards us and then disappears back into the crowd. 

“Who was that?” Madge hisses. Her playful smile has broken into a face splitting grin. 

“One of Mr. Hawthorne’s friends.” 

“Well, he’s absolutely gorgeous.” She giggles and gives my hand a squeeze. 

He is. Upon closer inspection, I could make out the color of Mr. Odair’s eyes. They were green, like the open sea in one of my pirate novels. 

When the first dance is about to begin Mr. Odair finds me and takes my hand. We smile warmly at each other as the music starts up, but out of the corner of my eye, I notice Peeta staring at us, drink in hand. He’s sitting this dance out. 

“You asked about the library at Templeton, Miss Everdeen. Does that mean you’re a voracious reader?” I’m thankful for the lifeline. I wasn’t going to come up with a conversation starter on my own.

“Indeed I am, Mr. Odair. And are you an academic or do you tend to align yourself with your outdoorsman of a friend?” 

He laughs and I can’t help but stare at his face. It’s the smile of someone you can trust, so warm and genuine. “I’m not as great a huntsman as he is, but I do love a ride.” Ah, horses. Mr. Odair looks like he would fit nicely into a pair of riding pants. I’m sure he realizes this. Mr. Odair seems very aware of his effect on women. 

As the dance goes on I’m surprised to find that Mr. Odair is incredibly agreeable. As I expected, he’s cocky and a tad arrogant, but under the shameless flirting, I find a quiet sincerity within him. I’m happy he asked me to dance. Maybe we can become friends. 

Ahead of us on the floor, Mr. Hawthorne is dancing with Marianne Cartwright. She looks radiant in a midnight blue gown. She also looks like she’s about to burst apart with happiness. I feel a twinge of jealousy in the pit of my stomach, which is absolutely ridiculous. To be jealous of Marianne dancing with Mr. Hawthorne would mean that I wanted him in the first place, when I know that I don’t. Perhaps I’ve failed indifference and Effie’s silly plans have somehow rooted themselves within me. I hope that I’m wrong. 

The song comes to an end and I thank Mr. Odair for the dance. He bows, saying he’s looking forward to hunting with me soon, and then he’s disappeared into the crowd once again. 

I turn towards the refreshments, expecting to have the next dance off to enjoy a drink, when I walk directly into someone. I almost lose my balance, but his hand darts out to grip my arm and steady me. His fingertips press into the bare flesh above my elbow that isn’t covered by my gloves. I watch his face flood with color as he apologizes, retracting his hand as quickly as he offered it. 

Peeta. 


	4. First Dance

The first thing I notice, besides how splotchy his cheeks have grown, is how patchy his coat is. It fits him nicely, hugging his form to accentuate his broad shoulders and slender waist, but it's obvious his coat has seen better days. Probably it belonged to one of his older brothers and got passed down to Peeta when the other had outgrown it. 

“Miss Everdeen, would you do me the honor of saving the next two dances for me?” he asks. A couple of people have stopped their conversations to watch us, no doubt intrigued that the baker’s boy is asking to dance with wealthy Mr. Abernathy’s ward. 

“Yes,” I say. “They’re yours.” 

He promises to meet me when the music begins. Once he’s out of sight, I continue on to the refreshment table in desperate need of something to cool me down. My cheeks feel hot and I have to fight the urge to press a cold crystal glass against them. 

What have I just done? I barely know what to say to him over a purchase and now I’ve doomed myself to two dances. What will we talk about? Will he mention the bread? Is this the time to try and thank him? 

No. There are too many people around. He probably just saw that I was partnerless and was trying to be nice. Or maybe he thought two dances were enough to pay him back, though I doubt a thousand dances between us could manage that. 

The band announces the next song is about to start and after a few shallow breaths, I go looking for Peeta. 

Upon closer inspection, I note that he cleans up well. He no longer wears an apron or has a stray streak of flour on his face, though I remember the flour as being endearing. He gently cradles my gloved hand in his larger one. I hope he doesn’t notice I’m trembling.

“You look very beautiful tonight, Miss Everdeen,” he says softly.

“I have something to confess, Mr. Mellark.” I start. “I’ve only just learned your name.” 

“Is that so?” he chuckles. The delicate skin around his eyes crinkle. This is the closest we've ever been, and I can't help but admire the handsome planes of his face. “Was this before or after I asked you to dance?” he murmurs. 

“Before,” I say, and watch his smile grow. 

The song, like the one I had with Mr. Odair, is slow. I’m happy to find that Peeta’s a good dancer, neither offbeat nor clumsy like some partners I’ve had. The notes float from the upper floor balcony where the band plays and the dance is dreamy and lilted. I feel like a flower petal that’s been swept up in a slow-moving current, gently guided by Peeta’s hand. 

“Is your sister well?” he asks. I smile sweetly up at him. Prim is one of my favorite topics. 

“She's healthy though heartbroken she couldn’t come tonight.” 

He begins asking more questions about Prim and my life at Victor Greene while I begin to wonder about him in the bakery. He’s telling me about how early he’s required to wake up on workdays when the song ends and the next one starts with a burst of the fiddle. A proper jig for a country ball. 

Without missing a beat, Peeta suddenly spins me around. My skirts brush his trousers and I’m laughing so hard at the sudden change that I’m out of breath. Everywhere we touch, I feel the hot fizzle of sparks. When the song ends, he places a kiss on the top of my hand and thanks me. I curtsy and then watch as he goes back to his friends. I see his brother clap him on the back and ruffle his hair as he re-enters their circle. I’m left feeling so giddy that I don’t quite register the remainder of the night, even when Mr. Hawthorne leads me onto the dance floor and Effie perches closeby to watch. 

Later, when I’ve made it back home, Prim joins me in bed. 

“What was he like?” she whispers. 

I know she’s curious about Mr. Hawthorne but I’m thinking of Peeta when I say, “Wonderful.”


	5. Templeton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katniss journeys to Templeton and becomes better acquainted with Mr. Hawthorne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr: junie-bugg

As rich as Haymitch is, Mr. Hawthorne is richer. I catch a glimpse of Templeton between the carriage curtains and don’t try to smother the grin that breaks across my face. 

The estate is one of the finest in the county, with vast acres of emerald lawn, a reflection pool the size of a small lake, and a gilded front gate that swings open on oiled hinges. The manor itself looks more like a castle than a house, with its floor-length windows, whitestone columns, and a pair of towers that glitter in the sunlight. 

_Take it all in, Katniss._ I hear Effie sigh longingly in my head. She wants a full report for when I get back. A week after the ball I had received a letter from Mr. Hawthorne inviting me to his estate for a day of hunting. He had even offered to host me overnight so I could dine with his party and not have to worry about getting home late. Effie dragged me to the writing desk in the parlor and had me accept his offer immediately. She then proceeded to run off with his letter. As she turned a corner, I saw her stroking the paper where he signed his name. What she did with it, I have no idea. 

Perhaps she framed it. 

I’m led through the front doors and into a grand entrance hall. My shoes click against black and white checkered marble as I get a good look around. Doorways are framed in gold carvings of fruit-laden vines, floors are carpeted in rich furs, and hundreds of colorful paintings depicting nature scenes and portraits alike hang from the paneled walls. My eyes are trailing along a wide marble staircase when I spot Mr. Hawthorne coming down to greet me. 

He’s even more handsome than I remember at the ball. Perhaps I had been too nervous then to take in his full appearance. His grey eyes twinkle beneath a set of heavy brows and his lips curve into a gentle smile. 

“Welcome to Templeton, Miss Everdeen,” he says, kissing my hand. I’m no longer wearing gloves and I feel the light brush of his stubble. “I’m so happy you accepted. I was quite taken with you at the assembly.” 

I act touched, even managing the good grace to blush, but I know he’s lying. Perhaps Mr. Ludgate’s dress and the mention of my hunting skills made me stand out amongst the other girls. Without those, I am completely forgettable. 

Mr. Hawthorne orders a servant to bring my luggage upstairs and then he offers me a tour of the house. I’m rendered speechless with the extravagance of it all. Every room is more finely decorated than the last. I’m soon swept up in the sights of billowing curtains, plush furniture, and polished gold doorknobs. In one room, a large grand piano. In another, row upon row of marble sculptures gleaming under skylights. One of the dining rooms houses a large, mahogany table that can seat at least forty people. I vaguely note that Mr. Hawthorne is talking about enhancements done on the manor by previous owners, but I’m not listening. I’m preoccupied with the realization that every room he’s led me through has at least two crystal chandeliers. I’m brought to a large ballroom where the sharp click of our steps echo between the pearl white walls, and then up the stairs and into a wide carpeted corridor filled with doorways. 

“This wing is for guests. Your room is the second on the left,” he says. He opens the door and lets me peek inside. There’s a large four-postered bed draped with fine white linens and covered in plump goose feather pillows. The white wood furnishings glitter with gold accents and there’s a wide set of windows that overlook the grounds. I spot the gardens, all manicured trees, flowering vines, and stone fountains. He leads me back downstairs and through a corridor just off the main hall that I hadn’t noticed upon first entering the house. When we come upon a set of large oak doors, Mr. Hawthorne stops and looks back at me. 

“Close your eyes,” he instructs. He places a hand on the knob. “I want this to be a surprise.” 

I laugh. Everything I’ve seen so far has surprised me, what’s so special about one more? But I comply and allow him to lead me into the room. When I open my eyes, I gasp. 

Mr. Hawthorne has brought me to the library. The grand room spans two stories and faces a beautiful outcropping of trees, but it’s not the size or the scenery that impresses me. I’ve never seen so many books in my entire life. New books, old books, manuscripts, atlases, encyclopedias, almanacs, maps, puckered leather, yellow pages. The smell of ink and paper is intoxicating. 

Mr. Hawthorne’s eyes follow me as I run a finger across a row of book spines.

“I knew you’d love it. Mr. Odair said you were fond of reading.” 

“So you two have been talking about me?” 

“Perhaps.” 

I flash him a genuine smile over my shoulder. “Thank you, Mr. Hawthorne. This is amazing. I could spend all day here.” 

“I’m glad to hear it, but I hope you won’t,” he says, extending a hand towards me. “The others are waiting to have tea with us in the garden, and then I’d like a tour of _your_ domain.” 

Ah, yes. I came here for hunting, not to sit by another man’s fire and paw through his books. But as much as I love the woods, it feels wrong bringing Mr. Hawthorne out there. I’ve grown so accustomed to my solo outings that having a companion or two would defeat the purpose. 

We join the others in the garden for tea and finger sandwiches. The weather is warm but I can smell the beginnings of autumn on the air. I’m reminded that the winter months will be upon us soon and we'll have to entertain ourselves indoors.

Miss Mason is much more talkative now that she approves of her surroundings. She remains extremely blunt in her words though and I wonder if she knows how rude other people must perceive her as. Upon knowing her only a little, I decide she doesn’t care. Besides her rough manners and haughty air, a small part of me respects her honesty. Though it's a very, very small part. 

“I do miss the society of Town,” she sighs. “Though I suppose country manners can be charming in their own small way.” 

“I’m glad you think so, Miss Mason,” I meet her gaze. “I couldn’t bear knowing you thought ill of _my_ manners.” 

All eyes snap to Mr. Hawthorne, who’s let out a laugh and tries, unsuccessfully, to mask it with a cough. Miss Mason’s expression sours as she continues sipping her tea. 

The conversation naturally turns towards the party’s favorite new acquaintances from Whitley. The Brattlebys are such a charming family, old Mr. Rathman from the paper stand always has an amusing story to share, and the Cartwrights...

“Miss Marianne Cartwright is a very sweet girl,” Mr. Odair says. “I've recently found out she's soon to be engaged.” 

“Is that so, sir?” I'm taken by surprise. Of course, Marianne is exquisitely beautiful, though unbeknownst to Mr. Odair, she’s been known to flirt and lead men on. The richer the man, the better. I had assumed she would play the field, milk the fun from her courting age for as long as she could before settling for the wealthiest bidder, but I guess the prospect of a quick marriage is more appealing. I had not expected such a move from her. Apparently, she's made an attachment so strong she believes an offer will be given quite soon. Though I can't think of any man I've seen her dance with more than twice in one night. 

“Do you know the man's name?” I inquire. 

“No idea,” Mr. Odair says. “Only that he is a good man from Whitley.” 

“Well, I wish her happiness.” 

“As do I. It seems marriage is one of the only things you women look forward to.” He winks across the table at Miss Cresta who smiles sweetly back at him. 

“I wouldn't say the only thing,” I drop a sugar cube into my tea and begin stirring thoughtfully with a spoon. “For instance, Mr. Odair, I quite look forward to beating you at hunting today.” 

“You think you can bag more birds than me?” His eyes glitter with my challenge. “You're on, my dear Miss Everdeen.” 

I quickly retire to my bedroom to change into one of my sturdier dresses and then set out to hunt in the vast forested land behind Templeton. Mr. Hawthorne tells me his hunting grounds span for miles and that I’m allowed to use them any time I like, even when I’m not his guest. 

“Though you’re always welcome to come up to the house if you wish, Miss Everdeen. You wouldn’t be intruding. In fact, think of the library as your own now.” 

I blush profusely, honored by his offer and fully prepared to take him up on it. 

The men wield their shotguns and I wield my bow. It’s a beautiful thing of polished ash wood and carved with my initials as well as the Abernathy family crest. It was one of the first gifts Haymitch ever gave me. Besides a hearty meal of course. When I first started, I was a horrible shot, but with time and practice, with static targets and wild animals alike, I learned. If only I had known how to hunt when Prim and I were starving. Surely, I could have kept us fed. 

The forests are alive with songbirds and small creatures that rustle around in the brush. The squirrels are easy to pick off, but I have my sights set on a larger target. 

Wild turkey.

The countryside is full of them during this season. 

We come across a large flock about two miles in. My mouth waters when I think of one roasted and stuffed on Templeton’s table tonight. By the time the men have managed to lift their guns to their shoulders, I’ve already shot down two. Mr. Hawthorne manages a third and Mr. Odair has barely managed a fourth when the flock scatters back into the forest and we’re left to retrieve our spoils. 

Our hunting party quietly treads on through the woods. I’m astonished at how velvet Gale’s step is. I don’t hear a single crunch of leaf or snap of twig come from him. Finnick wasn’t exaggerating when he said his friend could hunt. 

Gale’s not as good a shot as me, but he’s an absolute whiz when it comes to snares. He uses wire and sharpened sticks to craft traps, then camouflages them with leaves so they’re invisible to human and beast alike. By the time we decide to venture home, he has a fat belt of rabbits to show for his efforts. 

Upon our return to the manor, we send our kills off to the kitchens and retire to the drawing-room. Mr. Odair begins telling the ladies all about the trip while Mr. Hawthorne invites me to a game of chess. He has to remind me of the rules because it’s been so long since I’ve played. He’s just captured my bishop when he opens his mouth to speak. 

“I hope you don’t mind me saying this, Miss Everdeen,” he starts. “But you’re an even better shot than I anticipated.” 

It’s clear he thought Haymitch’s approval of my hunting skills was misplaced at the ball. I feel a rush of pride swell within me to know I’ve proved him wrong. Even gone so far as to impress him. 

I smile. “It’s only because I have so much free time to practice with, sir.”

“Yes, I suppose you do. I hope from now on you’ll spend some of it here.”

“If you were sincere in your offer of the library, then I’ll be sure to come. Perhaps you were too generous, Mr. Hawthorne. I’m afraid you’ll never be rid of me now.” 

We spend the rest of the night eating and talking. I’ve come to like this party. The ladies are rather reserved where the men are loud and jovial, but they’re all friendly in their own way. Even Miss Mason, who seems to have forgotten my slight from earlier.

The next morning, I bid my farewells to the party and climb into my carriage. I watch out the back window as Templeton and its inhabitants are slowly swallowed up by the thick foliage. The ride is quiet and uneventful and the solitude is refreshing after having spent so much time with others. I watch the verdant forests and fields blur past my window. 

Upon my arrival to Victor Greene, Effie pulls me aside before I’ve even taken off my coat. 

“Tell me everything, Katniss. I want _details_.” 

I begin describing the grounds and the archways. How delectable the food was, how large the fireplaces were, how comfortable my accommodations had been. I'm just getting to the description of the library, with its vast treasure trove of books and that _beautiful_ spiral staircase that led to the second-floor balcony, when I notice Effie frowning. 

“What?” I ask. 

“I mean tell me about Mr. Hawthorne, dear. What did he say to you? How did he act? You've just given me a list of his possessions.” 

I hadn't realized. As kind and obliging as Mr. Hawthorne had been, I guess his belongings were more memorable than his company. 

“He was…” I don’t know how to put it. “Agreeable.” 

Effie sighs, “I guess we can work with that.” Clearly, she’s still plotting my engagement to the man, though I want to remind her that I’m no skilled seductress, no matter how many of her lessons I attend. But if I must marry, maybe Mr. Hawthorne isn’t such a bad option...

All of a sudden, Prim comes bounding down the stairs clutching a disgruntled looking Buttercup. 

“We missed you!” she exclaims, thrusting the vermin into my arms. I assume she wants me to hug him. Instead, we eye each other warily before I drop him and he slinks off to do God knows what. Kill a mouse maybe? Pee on a carpet? 

I lay awake in my bed that night, tossing and turning. 

Am I really considering Gale Hawthorne? It’s clear he enjoys my company, offering me full access to his library and hunting grounds. He seemed especially attentive at dinner, even requesting I sit on his right-hand side. I assumed it was simply because I was the guest in the house, though he had spent most of the evening talking to me and completely ignoring his friends. He did say he was “taken” with me. But what does that even mean? Could it be that he actually cares for me? 

I shake my head, ruffling my hair against the pillow. There’s no way he’s formed such an attachment so quickly. That only happens in sappy romance novels and we barely know the first thing about each other. 

_He’s rich,_ a voice in my head whispers. _If you married Gale you’d be mistress of Templeton._

He’s also handsome. Tall. Knows how to hunt. I count off the pros in my head. The only real con is…

Well, if you strip away his looks and his belongings, there’s...something wanting. But my options are limited anyway, and he’s friendly enough. I could do a lot worse. In fact, I’m not sure how I could possibly do any better. I begin nodding off. 

As if in response to my internal doubts, a memory floats up through the depths of my consciousness. 

A small, blonde boy pressing bread into my palms. 

Suddenly, I’m wide awake.


	6. Peeta's Picnic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katniss and Peeta get better acquainted when they happen upon each other in the woods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr: junie-bugg

I decide to avoid Templeton, though I’m desperate to go. I know the books in the library lay unread and untouched. What writings must be there! Stories I’ve never heard of. Books filled with adventure and knowledge and philosophy. I could spend days reading in one of the armchairs by the fire, if it wasn’t for Gale…

It’s not that I’m avoiding him out of dislike. Quite the contrary, I like him a great deal. I assumed, being as rich as he is, that he’d be pompous. Vain. Contemptuous. I had wanted to dislike him, but it’s not easy to do so with his happy manners and easy smiles. I know we could grow to be good friends, though I have an uneasy feeling he wants more from our relationship. 

I’m flattered by his attentions. and confused as to why I can’t bring myself to return them. So instead, I hide from him to avoid thinking about such uncertainties. For while I can fake friendliness when needed, I cannot fake love. 

One bright morning, Prim sends me out on my walk with a request for white and orange wildflowers. She plans on making a gift with them for Buttercup since we’re quickly coming up on his birthday. We have no way of actually knowing what day he was born, since he came into our lives as a scroungy, worm-swollen kitten, but Prim likes to celebrate every year around the time we found him stealing from the kitchen. She brushes his fur, ties a ribbon around his neck, and spends a portion of the day baking him a cake he can’t even eat. Buttercup doesn’t seem to mind all the fuss Prim stirs up, but he doesn’t seem to enjoy it either. 

As soon as I’m out of sight of the house, I kick my shoes off and let my feet squish around in the cool mud. If Effie saw how much dirt was between my toes she would probably faint, although I’ll be careful to wash them off near the stables before I give her the chance. 

I wander the expansive grass fields and start picking wildflowers, making sure to carefully place them in my basket in such a way that they don’t get crushed. I spot white and yellow blossoms, teasels and daisies and lady’s bedstraw. Even delicate primroses, the flower for which my sister was named, peek up amongst the expansive green, but there’s not a flash of orange in sight. I decide to try searching the edge of the forest. I’ve just wandered into a small clearing when I spot him. 

There, at the base of an old, gnarled willow tree, sits Peeta Mellark. Sunlight glints off of his golden hair as he cranes his neck forward and focuses on something in his lap. He faces away from me, his feet as bare as mine.

I decide it would be rude to disrupt him. We shared two dances at the ball but we barely know each other. We’re not even friends. And if Peeta is anything like me he comes out here to the woods to be alone. 

I quickly turn to leave, but in my haste to get away, I step on a fallen twig. The snap echoes around the clearing.

He raises his head. His eyes widen when he sees me.

“Miss Everdeen!” 

He stands, making a move towards me before he abruptly stops and glances down at his feet. “Please excuse my appearance, miss. I didn't know anyone else came this way.” He has a small piece of paper in one hand and a paintbrush in the other. 

“Oh, no! I don’t mind. In fact-” I lift one of my own feet off the ground. “We’re matching, sir.” 

“So we are,” he beams. There’s an awkward pause where neither of us knows what to say. When the silence grows too long I point down at my basket. 

“Would you happen to know where I could find some orange flowers?”

He frowns. “I think I was just sitting on some.” 

Indeed he was. There’s a cluster of crushed orange aster blossoms at the base of the willow. He jokes about us trying to revive them but there’s no need. There are plenty more here below the drooping boughs. He bends down, carefully placing his painting on a flat stretch of grass, before helping me pick some. My fingers brush his before I have the good sense to pull away. 

I thought finding Peeta in the woods would be a one-time thing, but I was wrong. We keep bumping into each other. When it happens we exchange pleasantries and then I make up a lame excuse as to why I can’t stay, too nervous to try and sustain a conversation. 

We don’t always speak. Sometimes I see him walking back into the village from up on my hill or I notice him behind a tree. I’m sure he’s seen me around because I don’t try to hide. 

He finds me one day, ankle-deep in a spring-fed pool. I’ve bunched the hem of my skirts up around my knees and am absently stirring the water with a stick when I hear his voice. 

“If I didn’t know any better I would accuse you of following me around out here,” he teases.

My stomach does an excited somersault as I laugh and look at him up in the shadows. He wears light brown breeches and a loose white shirt through which I can see the outline of his broad shoulders and muscular arms. 

“You’re the one that happened upon me today, Mr. Mellark.”

“I was actually hoping to find you,” he lifts a large basket. “Would you care to join me for a picnic, Miss Everdeen?” 

* * *

The banks are too muddy to sit on so I lead him to my favorite hillside with the beautiful view of the valley. He lays out a blanket and begins setting dishes out on the corners so it doesn’t blow away in the wind. 

“I didn’t know what you’d like so I brought a little bit of everything.” 

“Peeta,” I breathe, marveling at the spread. “This is too much.” 

“Eat it and it won’t be,” he grins. 

Peeta has brought me a feast. An assortment of fresh fruit, baked apple tarts, steaming chicken and rice in a savory orange sauce, cheese buns, sugar cookies drizzled in dark chocolate, a pink cake frosted to look like a flower and dotted with raspberries, and a large jug of iced lemonade garnished with crushed mint sprigs. He hands me a plate and begins piling food onto it. He bothered to bring silverware. At the sight of food I realize I’m famished. 

“Is it ok that I called you ‘Peeta’?” I ask in between bites of chicken and bread. “‘Mr. Mellark’ is kind of a mouthful.” 

“I won’t object to it,” he smiles and pours himself a large glass of lemonade. “It’s better than what my brothers call me.”

“You have a nickname?”

“You really want to know?”

“Well, now I’m curious.”

He scrunches his nose up. “They call me ‘Petey’.” 

I let out a laugh. The name suits a pet more than a brother. 

“When I was a kid my father called me ‘Catnip’ because I used to pick cattails down by the river and tried to tickle people with them. But if we’re to be friends you should just call me ‘Katniss’.”

Peeta’s expression softens. “You want to be my friend?” 

The idea causes a sudden wave of happiness to build within me. 

“Sure, why not? You bring me food and I can’t seem to get rid of you anyway. I could do a lot worse.” 

“Alright then,” he smiles. From this close, I can see how blue his eyes are. They remind me of cut crystal or moonbeams through water. Beautiful chips of clear blue sky. There’s something incredibly pleasant about the way his mouth moves when he speaks and in the span of an hour, I begin mentally sketching out who this boy is. He doesn't take sugar in his tea, his favorite color is orange, and he always double knots his shoes because once he tripped over a loose lace and fell face-first into a mud puddle. Everyone in the schoolyard had laughed. 

“Never again,” he swears, somehow all jokes and seriousness at the same time. 

I silently marvel at his hands when he urges me to eat whatever I want. They're painter’s hands, spotted with faded colors here and there. His palms are a patchwork of soft skin and calluses and his knuckles are so lightly dusted with freckles that they're almost invisible unless one has a reason to look. 

We’ve started sharing a cluster of green grapes when he tells me about his older brothers, Bran and Rye. Bran recently enlisted in the army and is stationed on a base up north with his wife and son. Rye is engaged to Miss Laura Hail, a sweet girl whose father owns an apple orchard just east of Whitley. Once he’s married he plans on taking orders and becoming a clergyman in the next county over. Rye will be gone within the month.

“Does that mean…?”

He nods. “Last man standing. I inherit the bakery.” 

_And you’ll be expected to get married now that both your older brothers are settled,_ I think. 

I’m sure Peeta has many female admirers in Whitley. Who wouldn’t jump at the chance to marry such a sweet boy who could keep you well-stocked in bread? Not only that, but he’s grown up and is now quite handsome, what with his curly blonde hair and chiseled features. The slope of his nose only interrupted by a charming bump on the bridge reminds me of a statue I saw once. His skin is smooth, his lips full, his jaw defined. And he has a cute set of dimples that appear whenever he smiles. 

I imagine a Peeta whose parents have passed. He’s grown a beard like his father once had, runs the bakery, and lives in his childhood home with his wife and their gaggle of chubby, blonde children. He feeds them cream and bread for dinner before tucking them in with woolen blankets and hushed fairytales by the fire. When I try to picture my future, it’s empty of such warmth. 

I’ll be married, and Prim will have her own family. Her own household to run and a husband who’s given her children to care for. She won’t need me anymore, though I suppose I’ll be expected to have children of my own who will. 

The thought is so jarring, I begin to feel a little queasy. But I’ve known this for a long time. Society dictates that the duty of a wife is to produce heirs. That’s how we’re useful.

“Sounds like your life is all figured out,” I muse, half to Peeta and half to myself. 

He frowns down at his drink, swirling the ice around. “I suppose.” 

Peeta finishes his lemonade and starts munching on a cookie. When he sees I’ve stopped eating he presses one into my hand. He watches me closely to make sure I swallow. I realize he's doing it again. 

Feeding me.

“Do you have hobbies?” he asks, raising his hand to shade his eyes from the sun. 

“Hunting,” I say, watching his reaction. Like I expected, his eyes widen and he sits up a little straighter. 

“With a shotgun?”

“No, I’m not one for bullets. I use a bow and arrows.” 

“Just like Priantha,” he grins. 

“Who?” I’ve never heard of Priantha. I run through a list of all of the girls in Whitley I know of: Rachels and Carolines and Janes, but no Priantha surfaces. 

“My dad used to tell me and my brothers stories. My favorite was of a huntress spirit named Priantha who wore grass blade cloaks and hunted by night with a bow and arrow.” His cheeks suddenly redden and his voice takes on a new shyness. “She wore her hair in a braid just like you, with flowers and twigs between the strands to blend in with the forest. When I thought she was real I would come to the woods and try to find her. I suppose I had a crush on her, so I was understandably very upset when my brothers told me it was all made up.” 

I picture a small Peeta roaming the countryside, desperate to catch a glimpse of flower woven braid, and something inside of me begins to unfurl. 

“Was this story a Mellark original?”

“No, it's an old folktale that my father picked up. Us Mellarks are better with our hands than our brains.” He winks at me and I almost choke on my own spit. I pull myself together and manage a polite cough instead.

“I'm sorry to say I don't know any folktales about friendly bakers,” I tease. “If I happen upon one I'll let you know.” 

“There's no need. Any story about a baker would be awfully boring.” 

I realize talking to Peeta is so easy. Usually, I find myself struggling for topics or forcing myself to act a certain way, but with him everything is natural. Comforting even. I don't want to stop. With every minute passing, I feel myself becoming less awkward and more open. The conversation eventually steers towards my lessons with Effie.

“So, she teaches you what exactly?” He raises an eyebrow. I try to mimic Effie’s ridiculous high pitched accent. 

“To win a husband of course!” We both crack up and my chest feels light. Maybe if I stand I’ll simply float away. “No, seriously, she’s teaching me how to sit up straight and look pretty.” 

“I don’t think you need instruction on that second part,” he laughs. Now it’s my turn to blush. I pop a raspberry into my mouth and hope he doesn’t see how splotchy my cheeks have grown. “But I agree with Miss Trinket. Your posture could use some work.” 

I smack him on the arm and giggle. _Giggle?_ Only Prim has ever drawn those out of me. 

“So she’s teaching you how to get a husband but she’s not married herself?” 

I stop and blink. No, I guess not. Trinket is her maiden name. I wonder why she hasn’t married yet, seeing as her job is to teach young ladies about etiquette and securing the attentions of men. You would think she would have utilized her knowledge by now. 

“Maybe she's waiting to fall in love,” I muse, half-serious. I don't think I know someone more desperate to marry into fortune than Effie Trinket. 

At the word "love" a heavy look settles over Peeta’s face. I can’t quite place it. Sadness? Longing? Uncertainty? I’m not sure, but I try to steer our conversation away from any talk of marriage. He must be sick of the subject. 

I know I am. 

“So you paint?”

“When I can get away from the bakery,” he responds. “Canvas is a bit expensive but if I save Mr. Rathman a box of cheese tarts once a week, he gives me some paper.” 

“What about actual paints? Do you buy those?” 

He frowns and looks down at his hands. I watch the tips of his ears turn pink and realize with a dull pang of shame that I’ve embarrassed him. 

“Also too expensive. I make do with what I find in the forest. Or use water and food coloring.” 

Peeta’s family is by no means the poorest family in Whitley. The Mellarks live a comfortable life, with food on the table and warm living quarters above their shop. Peeta probably grew up earning pocket money from running morning deliveries. He’s never been in dire need of food or clothing or a roof over his head, but there’s something depressing about not having quite enough to fuel a beloved hobby, or having all of your clothes be hand-me-downs.

Money is no issue for Prim and I. Haymitch sees to that. But I can understand how Peeta must feel because, at one point in my life, I had nothing. 

I grin. “Your art must be very unique then.” 

He laughs and leans leisurely back on his forearms. 

“It’s all bleached newspapers and berry juice, not even worthy of a frame.” He’s sprawled out beside me like a marble statue. All he needs to complete the look is a circlet of laurel leaves and a tastefully placed swathe of fabric.

I curl my lip in amusement. “I don’t believe you. Your frosting work is so beautiful. Don't sell your paintings short.” We settle into a comfortable silence before I add: “If you don’t mind I’d like to see them one day.” 

He tilts his head and gazes curiously at me. He doesn’t speak for so long I’m almost afraid there’s mud on my face. I ask him if there is and his eyes widen comically.

“No your face is fine. More than fine even.” Now we both blush. “I guess I’m just tired from working all week.” 

“You can take a nap,” I say. “I’ll protect our stuff.” 

He pauses, hesitating at my offer.

“You don’t mind?”

“Of course not,” I say, lifting a book from my basket. “I have an adventure to go on.” 

He smiles again. His teeth peek out between his lips and I feel my heart skip a beat. It’s dizzying and painful all at once. 

He settles down next to me on the blanket and tells me to wake him if anything interesting happens. His breath evens out within minutes and I’m left grinning to myself behind yellowing pages when he begins to snore lightly. 

At some point, I set my book down and look out over the golden fields of the valley. Spread out in front of our blanket is another perfect autumn day. The trees have finally changed. Their leaves stain the countryside in bright swathes of reds and golds. The road we lay by is quiet, empty of traffic, and the sky is a beautiful clear blue. I see the squat stone buildings of Whitley far off in the distance. Their red and brown roofs remind me of mushroom tops. 

The wind picks up, brushing grass against my ankles as I look over and notice a lock of hair on Peeta’s forehead has been blown into his eyes. I gently reach to brush it away and find I want to touch his hair again. After a few moments of this, gently caressing his brow and stroking his hair, I notice his snoring has stopped. 

My pulse ratchets up until I can feel it pounding in the hollows of my ears. I jerk my hand away as if Peeta were an open flame and pick up my book. I cautiously watch him in my peripheral vision. He hasn’t moved and he hasn’t opened his eyes, but I can tell from the uneven cadence of his breathing that he’s awake. 

I curse myself quietly. He’s pretending to be asleep to avoid the awkward prospect of catching me in the act. Somewhere, buried deep beneath the embarrassment, I’m grateful. At least now I can pretend like it never happened. 

We don’t stay up on the hill much longer, as it starts to get chilly and neither of us brought anything warm to wear. His white shirt looks as thin as tissue paper pressed against his chest and I didn’t bother to bring a shawl. I make a mental note to come more prepared next time.

Next time. 

Will there be a next time? 

He must be thinking along the same lines because he turns to me at the fork in the road before we part ways. 

“I’d like to see you again,” he shifts his basket between hands. “As friends. If you’ll allow it.” 

“You should come to Victor Greene tomorrow morning. We could have tea in the drawing-room or I could show you the gardens.” 

He smiles. “As long as I’m not imposing.” 

“You wouldn’t be. Just a friend visiting a friend.” It'd be improper to formally host Peeta, since he's never been properly introduced to Haymitch and us spending time alone together is technically forbidden. But maybe if he came bearing a delivery from the bakery I could pass off inviting him inside as a polite way of saying thank you? It's risky, but the servants tend to stay within the kitchen or tidying the upstairs bedrooms during the mornings. Surely if Peeta came by for just a little while no one would notice? 

I tell him my plan, promising I'll pay him back for whatever delectable box of goodies he decides to bring. I'm hoping for more of those cheese buns, but I don't explicitly tell him so, afraid I'll sound demanding. He nods, understanding the weight behind my words. 

As I'm about to go, I have a thought that leaves me feeling dizzy, but it’s the least I can do in thanks for the picnic. 

I stretch up on my tiptoes, ignoring the violent burst of butterflies in my stomach, and gently place a kiss on his cheek. As I pull away I can feel his warm breath fan over my brow. Having his face so close to my own sends a sickening wave of vertigo through my body, as if I was peering down a cliffside and into the neverending depths of the ocean. 

“Thank you, Peeta. For the food.” 

I turn to leave but out of the corner of my eye, I see him raise a hand to his cheek. He gently strokes a knuckle along where I had placed my lips. 

I can't help myself. 

I smile the whole way home.


	7. The Hiding Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katniss deals with some internal struggle involving her relationship with Peeta.

Peeta doesn’t come the next morning. I walk to his usual spots: the meadow full of willows, the creek, and the old oak tree he sometimes sits beneath, but he’s not there. Nor is he on the hill where we had our picnic. There’s no trace of him, not a single crushed flower or any oddly bent grass patches. I start to get nervous that maybe he’s ill, but then think better of it. The weather has been mild and the rain has yet to start. He looked healthy when we were together, surely he’s not sick. But then what could keep him? 

It occurs to me as I’m returning home that I could walk to the bakery to see him. It’s just two miles down the road. Then again, if he hasn’t come to see me himself, perhaps he doesn’t want to see me at all. My stomach plummets at the thought. I stroked his hair and kissed his cheek. Maybe he’s repulsed by me, only wanting friendship when I’ve accidentally shown him bits of lover’s affection. I didn’t mean to make him uncomfortable, I just wanted to show that I was thankful he was so kind and easy to talk to. 

Besides Madge, I have no other close friends. I’ve never spent time with a man unchaperoned and if anyone had happened upon us yesterday they would be suspicious. I didn’t see anyone but it is possible someone saw us from afar. Once the gossip started perhaps we’d both be hurt in the cross-fire. Word would spread around town of us being alone together and colorful rumors of sordid affairs would fill Whitley’s tea rooms and shops. The gaping difference in our social status would cause an uproar. 

But no. If word of our unchaperoned acquaintance reached the news stream of Whitley, surely Effie, her finger ever on the pulse, would have pounced on me by now demanding information and berating my carelessness. I imagine Effie chewing me out.

_What would Mr. Hawthorne think? This isn’t helping your case at all!_

Did I behave badly? What else would have driven him away?

 _You told him you hunt._ A voice whispers. _Now he thinks you unladylike._ But he had seemed so accepting of it, comparing me to the spirit Priantha. And wasn’t he the one who had asked to see me again? If he changed his mind I shouldn’t press the issue. You can’t force someone to like you, no matter what you say or what you offer. I banish my thoughts of visiting the bakery and hurry home. 

Fine. If he wants to avoid me, I won’t stop him. Though I can’t pretend that his rejection doesn’t hurt.

As I near the front gate of Victor Greene I spot two horses being led into the stables. They’re not ours. One is pure white while the other speckled brown, and we own no such steeds. 

“Welcome home, my lady.” Our butler Mr. Stevenson takes my coat as I enter the front hall. “Two gentlemen have just arrived. A Mr. Odair and a Mr. Hawthorne to see you. They’re in the parlor now speaking with the master.” I’m shocked. I haven’t seen either since hunting though I guess my refusal to visit is the very thing that’s drawn them here.

“Thank you, Stevenson. Did they mention their reason for coming?” 

“No, my lady. Though they seemed in good spirits.” I consider both men friendly acquaintances but I had not invited them to call. Perhaps they were in the neighborhood and decided to come to say hello, though I hope they don’t ask me why I haven’t visited them again at Templeton. 

I enter the parlor and see Mr. Hawthorne and Mr. Odair speaking with Haymitch, who’s balancing Prim on his knee. 

“Katniss!” She jumps off of Haymitch and barrels into me. Her spindly little arms wrap around my waist. “You didn’t tell me how handsome Mr. Hawthorne was,” she whispers. 

I laugh and pet her hair. The men stand when they see me and bow politely, except for Haymitch, who sips slowly from a goblet. 

“Glad you finally showed up, sweetheart. These gentlemen have been waiting for you very patiently,” Haymitch says.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting, sirs. I had no idea you planned to call on us today.”

“Neither did I,” Mr. Hawthorne starts. “but Mr. Odair has some… well, Finnick. Go on.” He waves the other man ahead.

Finnick’s eyes are bright when he says, “I wanted to tell you the news in person, Miss Everdeen. Before you venture into Whitley and hear it for yourself.” 

My heart rate spikes. Is it news of Peeta? Has he been hurt? Has someone found us out? It was just a simple picnic. We’re friends and that’s all we can ever be since propriety has deemed the expanse between our stations uncrossable.

“I’ve asked Miss Cresta to marry me and she has agreed. We are to be wed next month and I wanted to personally invite you and your family to the festivities,” Finnick beams. 

I’m so relieved it’s not bad news that I practically leap forward to take his hands in mine. Prim plucks a flower from one of the bouquets in the room and hands it to Mr. Odair, who smiles sweetly down at her and places it in his breast pocket. 

Annie Cresta, from what I recall, is very quiet. Her temperament is the opposite of confident Mr. Odair, but I have a feeling this very fact favors their compatibility. 

After congratulations are given and tea has been brought in, the gentlemen must leave. I walk them out, giving Finnick an especially warm squeeze when he kisses my hand in farewell. I turn to Mr. Hawthorne who’s smirking at me. Something in his gaze rubs me the wrong way.

“What is it, sir?”

“You look very beautiful when you’re happy,” he remarks. Then I watch as he mounts his horse, tips his hat, and rides off. 

When I’ve gone back to the parlor, Prim is jumping around and squealing. Mr. Odair invited the entire family, meaning Prim is allowed to come to the wedding. Surely she’s never been so excited in her life. Mrs. Winthrop will have to order her a new dress just for the occasion.

“A _wedding!_ I’ve never been to one!” 

“They’re quite boring, Prim,” I say. “You just sit around until someone says ‘I do’ and then there’s some cheering.” She either doesn’t hear me or chooses to ignore me. 

“Mr. Odair said I could be his second dance partner! After his new bride of course,” she reports as if we hadn’t been in the room when he made the offer. “I wonder what type of gown she’ll wear. Do you think they’ll have a tiered cake?” I sit down and crack open a book when I feel the gentle press of Prim’s hand on my knee. “I think he likes you very much.” 

“Indeed. Mr. Odair is setting himself up to be a very good friend of ours,” I answer. 

“No, silly. I mean Mr. Hawthorne. He couldn’t take his eyes off of you. And you even have mud on your hem! He must like you a great deal if he can overlook that.” 

“A muddy hem isn’t a sin, Primrose!” I laugh and pretend to smack her arm with my book, but she’s right. During the entire visit, Mr. Hawthorne had been paying careful attention to me. Just like the hunting trip at Templeton, only more intense. I shiver, realizing what I saw in his face as he was leaving. 

Possessiveness. 

“I’m going to go tell Buttercup the news,” Prim giggles and then runs from the room. Haymitch and I make eye-contact, me over my book and him over his glass. 

“She’s turning out to be a _very_ silly girl,” he declares. I think back to my time with Mrs. Winthrop. 

“Better silly than sullen,” I reply. 

We both snort. 

* * *

It was fortunate that Mr. Odair had come to tell us the news in person. Upon a simple stroll into the square later that day, I could hear it was all anyone was talking about. News travels fast in Whitley because while we country folk are spread out, it is this very fact that makes us hunger for gossip. I pass clusters of women talking about what they will wear if they get invited, how expensive the decorations will be, what the cake might look like, and how long the happy couple should wait to have children. The women share opinions on the subjects rather than simple predictions, as if Mr. Odair’s business was their own. I avoid the bakery altogether, not wanting another run-in with Peeta when he hasn’t even come to see me. 

Even though I tell myself I’m over it, thoughts of him keep me awake at night. I picture how peaceful he had looked in sleep and I imagine the feel of his soft cheek against my lips. I sit up, suddenly flushed and frustrated when my gentle memories turn into frantic daydreams of hot breath and clashing lips and the feel of his muscular body under my roaming fingertips. 

This has to stop. How have I distorted our friendship into something so heinous? This very twisting of our relationship is the reason he stopped wanting to see me. 

I quickly glance through my window and note the moon is settled high in the sky. Maybe a nighttime stroll is just what I need to clear my head. 

I sneak downstairs in my nightdress to grab a coat and take the first one my hand touches. It’s one of Haymitch’s. It’s made of thick wool and it’s a bit roomy in the shoulders, but it smells like his cologne and it’s incredibly warm. I grab an oil lamp, light it with a match, and bring that along too. Even with the moon glowing so bright tonight I’ll need a little help to get through the forest shadows. I tiptoe past the kitchen, where I hear the soft chatter of voices, and make my way to an unguarded back door that leads into the gardens. Once free of the house I breathe in the chilled air, heady with the earthy scents of autumn and fertilizer. There’s something so pure about the air at nighttime. It’s so much more pleasant than the thick cloying smell of old upholstery and curtains. 

I make my way through a gap in the tall shrubbery that borders the grounds, being careful to avoid the guarded front gate lest someone spots me sneaking out. I find myself standing on the dirt lane that leads towards Templeton, but I turn and begin walking towards the shadowy grass fields that border the forest. The chill nips at patches of bare skin and I pull Haymitch’s coat close to keep in body heat. The night is full of chirping crickets, twinkling stars, and silvery moonbeams that send a lilted peacefulness over the land. Even without my bow, I’m not afraid of the forest beasts. They don’t tend to tread near roads or houses. You have to venture deep into the woods to find danger and I don’t plan on this being an expedition. I make my way to my usual hillside, content on spending some time star gazing. 

I’m buried so deeply in my own thoughts that I don’t see him until he’s sitting in the grass a mere six feet away. His eyes catch the light of my lamp. He looks like some scared wild creature, unsure whether to flee or stand and face me. The mere sight of him sends adrenaline coursing through my body. He stands slowly, as if I’m the wild thing he doesn’t want to frighten, as I struggle to find my voice. 

“You didn't come.” I sound like a small, disappointed child.

“I was going to, Katniss. But my mother…” His voice suddenly drops off. He won't look me in the eye and he’s being awfully silent. Cold fear begins to creep up on me. 

“What’s wrong, Peeta?” 

There’s a resigned look in his eyes as he turns away from me and begins lifting the back of his shirt. With the combined glow of my lamp and the moonlight, I can just make out the lines. I step closer, reaching out to touch him. When my fingertips brush broken skin I finally realize what’s happened. 

He’s been beaten.


	8. The Greenhouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katniss takes Peeta to her greenhouse. Fluff, comfort, and a sprinkle of angst ensues. WARNING: mention of blood and injury.

She did a good job, I think bitterly as I take inventory of his wounds. His mother had made sure whatever damage she inflicted upon him would be easy to hide under clothing. The skin around his ribs is badly bruised and there are multiple oozing gashes on his back. I lightly touch his shoulder blades where the worst of the damage is. He watches my face thoughtfully as I circle him. 

“It’s not that bad, Katniss. I’ve had worse.”

“Worse?” I hiss. Below the fresh wounds, I spot old scar tissue. I want to cry but I doubt that would make him feel any better so I chew on my lower lip instead. “When did this happen?” 

“This morning.” 

“Was it because I invit-”

“No,” he grabs my hand and presses my trembling fingers to his mouth. I feel his lips brush my skin as he speaks. “This is not your fault.” His touch makes me shiver. I’m suddenly very aware of his bare skin. 

When I had first seen the cuts I had ordered him to take his shirt off so I could get a better look. Touching him while I probed his ribs for fractures had meant nothing. Now that the initial shock is gone, and with no fractured ribs found, I’m left looking at the most naked I’ve ever seen a man. I know he's hurting, hiding out here in the woods, but I can't suppress the impulse that hums along my spine and pools between my legs. He’s the very thing I was trying not to think about by coming out here and yet… 

_And yet here he is_. 

Fate is laughing at me. 

“I need to disinfect your wounds,” I say, averting my eyes as I toss his shirt back to him. “Put this on.” 

“I don’t care if you see me, Katniss.” His voice is notably breathy.

“Well, I do. You’re making me uncomfortable.” 

“Sorry,” he whispers. I want to tell him it’s not his fault. That it’s mine for allowing my thoughts to go to such shameful places. But that would entail me telling him exactly what I’ve been imagining all night, and I don’t think I could put those thoughts into words for him. 

I decide to bring him to my greenhouse. Who knows what parading a wounded man inside Victor Greene at this hour would stir up? Nothing good. It’s a house full of eyes. Surely the whole town would know about Peeta’s presence here before lunchtime tomorrow if chatty Mrs. Thayer makes her usual morning run to the grocers. The greenhouse is much safer. Besides, that’s where I keep my medical supplies anyways. 

I sneak him in using the same gap in the shrubbery I escaped through. He’s taller and broader than me, so squeezing him through the Katniss sized hole is no easy feat. I’m afraid the loud rustling paired with the light from my lamp will alert the guards at the gate of our presence, so I motion for Peeta to stand perfectly still and harshly blow out the light as I watch their silhouettes in the distance. They’re distracted and wholly unaware of the two of us sneaking around in the darkness. I glance up at the house, gleaming like a pearl in the moonlight. There are candles flickering in the kitchen and the servants quarters but all other windows are dark. The coast is clear. 

Peeta has been walking rather slowly, so I wedge myself under his arm and help him along. Even using me as a crutch, his lips are white and he’s breathing heavily as I usher him through the greenhouse door. 

I’m no healer, at least not like my mother was, but she taught me some basic skills before she was carted off. She had grown up as the only daughter of Whitley’s apothecary. The shop is run by a different family now, the Blakes, and I have no idea if my grandparents are dead or if they just moved away. I hope they’re dead. That would make the circumstances of how Prim and I were placed into Haymitch’s care just a little more bearable. They couldn’t have abandoned us if they were dead. 

He takes his shirt off again as I move to light a few candles. Soon we’re bathed in their flickering glow and his hair gleams like spun gold. His bruises look even worse when I draw the candle close. It's like someone has painted his skin black and blue, but there’s not much I can do about those. They’ll have to heal on their own. I begin cleaning his wounds with a damp washcloth, noting that some parts have scabbed over and others still ooze slightly. His skin is inflamed and there are angry red marks, not quite cuts, that I can’t explain. I place the bloodied cloth down and grab a bottle of rubbing alcohol from a drawer. He doesn’t have a fever so I don’t suspect infection has set in yet, though I’ll disinfect the cuts and bandage them just in case. With every press of alcohol-soaked rag he winces. 

My heart sinks as I begin disinfecting a cut below his shoulder blade. The blood had obscured how deep the wound was, but now with it clean, I can see the bright pink gleam of muscle. I’ve applied stitches once before when I had cut open my knee on a rock two years ago and was forced to sew it up myself. I had almost vomited then, because of the pain. The feeling of sewing up someone else’s torn flesh isn’t very pleasant either, but hopefully, I can keep it together for Peeta. 

He sucks in a sharp breath when I reveal the needle from a drawer. I shoot him an apologetic glance, sterilize the needle tip with the alcohol, and give what I hope is a reassuring squeeze to his shoulder. 

“I’ll try to be quick.”

“Not too quick though,” he chuckles nervously, his eyes darting between me and the needle. “I think I might pass out if you have to start all over.” 

“Right,” I gulp. “No pressure then.” I thread the needle and begin. 

I’m trying to work as fast and as carefully as possible, but stitching straight is hard when your hands are shaking. Peeta’s skin is slick with sweat and has drained of all color by the third suture. He tries to be quiet, for my sake I think, but with every sharp puncture of the needle and every excruciating drag of thread, I hear his breath quicken. He’s bent over, forearms pressed to his knees, and shuddering violently under my palms when I’ve finally finished. 

“Done,” I breathe and rub a patch of skin on his back that isn’t bleeding. “It’s done, Peeta.” He lets out a low, pained moan and cradles his head in his hands. Getting stitches in is the most difficult part, but once they’re settled they begin to throb. I continue rubbing his back methodically, hoping my touch is somehow helping to lessen the pain he’s in, but from the way he’s been clenching and unclenching his jaw, I doubt I’m doing much to comfort him. 

“What’d she use?” I ask. Neither of us has talked for many minutes and my voice fills the silence like a gunshot. 

“The fire poker,” he whimpers. “It was still hot.” 

That explains the red marks. They’re burns. I grow a plant that’s good for burns right here in the greenhouse. I pick a generous handful of glossy leaves and begin grinding them with a mortar and pestle. As I work, I begin to seethe. 

Why would his mother do this? Beat her own son black and blue? I knew she was horrible ever since she yelled at me by her trash cans. She had hit him across the face back then too. But this? Beating him with a hot poker? It’s cruel. 

I begin smearing the pale green paste onto his burns, being generous in my application. He lets out an audible sigh as the numbing effect kicks in. The sharp, medicinal scent of the salve is especially pleasant after the iron tang of blood. I grab a large swath of clean bandage from the cabinet and begin wrapping his torso carefully. 

I’m hovering in front of him, admiring my handiwork and checking for any loose pieces of cloth, when he gently takes a hold of my wrist. His fingertips are rough. 

“Thank you, Katniss,” he whispers. He places a kiss into my palm. He’s gentle, almost hesitant, and my heart is beating against my ribcage so violently I'm sure he can hear it. His breath fans over my skin and my palm tingles where his lips no longer touch. 

“I should go now,” he says quietly. He stands, reaches for his shirt, and makes to leave but I grab his arm.

“Wait, Peeta. Stay the night.” His eyes widen and he begins to shake his head, but I insist. “It's too late to be walking so far and you need to rest. You can sleep in here and I’ll bring you breakfast in the morning.” He looks over at the nook I'm gesturing to. It's filled with pillows and blankets.

“Please,” I say dumbly. “I’d feel better if you stayed.” He glances down at my hand still wrapped around his bicep. I pull it away, afraid I've been touching him too much. 

“Alright, Doc,” he teases. I can tell he's still in a great deal of pain but he must be feeling slightly better to crack a joke. 

I begin blowing out the candles as he settles down in the nook. A warm feeling passes through me, to know that Peeta is sleeping in my greenhouse. My sanctuary. 

I watch him set his head down on one of the pillows. He inhales deeply. 

“It smells like you,” he sighs. He sounds happy, and my heart flutters. As I’m opening the door and wishing him goodnight, I hear him whisper something, but I couldn’t make it out.

“What’d you say?” 

“I said ‘thank you’. Again. You didn’t have to do all that.”

“Of course I did. You helped me once.” I move to leave but he sits up suddenly. I can only make out his silhouette in the darkness but his voice is filled with amazement. 

“You remember that?” I nod, suddenly mute with uncertainty. I’ve wanted to thank him for so long, but simply saying the words doesn’t seem enough. I’m not sure what else I can give him though. Nothing I can offer will ever come close to repaying this ultimate debt. 

He watches me from under the blankets. In the silence, I can hear him swallow. 

“I think about that all the time. How I should have given you more.” 

This pulls me up short. The bread had been everything to us. What more could he have given?

“You stopped coming to school and I didn’t know why until I heard about your father. And then I saw you that day by the apple tree and I-'' his voice falters. I hear a muffled sound and realize with a start that he’s trying to hold back tears. His voice is choked with them. “You looked half dead. I should have brought you a package of meat o-or brought you a hot meal. Not some horrible blackened bread.” I’m surprised that Peeta noted my absence at school. I had recognized him that day at the bakery but we had never talked and I had never paid him much attention before. Had he been paying attention to me?

“You didn’t owe me anything,” I say lightly.

“That's not the point, Katniss. I could've helped you.”

“You did, Peeta. You have. That was the kindest thing anyone had ever done for me.” I watch through the shadows as he raises a hand to wipe at his eyes. He laughs shakily. “Truly. I owe you my life.” 

I should go now and let him rest, but I can't seem to drag myself away. 

“When I heard Mr. Abernathy adopted you, I was so relieved,” he confesses. “I watched you out the bakery window for years. You looked so much healthier, I couldn't believe my eyes.” As he talks I'm drawn back into the greenhouse. I find myself standing by him, hugging my arms to my chest. The pressure of my own palms is soothing, as is his voice. 

There's a sliver of moonlight that has forced its way through the frosted glass window and splays itself across Peeta’s face, casting it in haunting relief. His eyes seem darker, his features dramatic and harshly handsome. He’s beautiful to behold. 

“That day at the bakery, when you came in with your sister for the cookies, I swore that I'd ask you to dance at the ball. Even if you had refused me I would’ve been happy. And then I saw you arrive in that dress and I almost lost my nerve.”

“Peeta…” I sigh. “You're in pain, you should rest.” 

“Can you stay with me? Until I fall asleep?” I let his question hang in the air for a heartbeat. I should go up to the house before someone notices I’m missing, but just like before, I find myself drawn to him, unable to pull myself away. It’s like he’s got me on a string.

“It might take a while…”

“All the better.” 

“Alright,” I consent with a soft smile. My body is thrumming at the prospect. I shuck Haymitch’s coat off and freeze when I realize all I have on is my flimsy, almost see-through, nightgown. He doesn't seem to notice though, as he's scooching over to make room for me and rearranging pillows. I force my limbs into action, afraid that if I hesitate I may never work up the courage to join him. If anyone walked in on us here, huddled together beneath the covers, they would be suspicious. But there’s nothing sinister about what we’re doing. I'm here for Peeta’s comfort. Surely you don't want to be left alone in a strange new place when you're hurting. And he must be hurting a great deal in this nook. It may have pillows for your head, but underneath all the blankets is hardwood paneling. I doubt that feels good to lie down on with all his bruises. 

I slide under the blankets and lay my head on a pillow. His body heat is delicious and he smells of cinnamon and burn salve. He didn't say if he wanted to be held, but I can't help myself from reaching out towards him. I touch his hair, pushing it back from his face so I can admire the curve of his temple. Our eyes lock.

“Are you in a lot of pain?” 

“I can bear it,” he whispers. 

“If she ever hurts you again, you come straight to me. Got it?” His mouth curves into a playful smile. I catch a glimpse of his dimples.

“I’ll drag myself over if I have to. Now, come here.” He tugs the corner of my pillow closer to his own, tucking my head under his chin. He slowly reaches to stroke my braid, marveling at the intricate plait. My nose is pressed to his collarbone and I hear his voice rumbling deep in his throat when he speaks. 

“Is this alright?” he asks. His voice is hushed, like he’s afraid one wrong move will send me running from his arms. I nod as he continues playing with my hair. The gentle tug on my scalp is soothing and stirs up curious feelings within me. I can’t help when my nipples harden against the fabric of my nightdress, or when I feel a pleasant wetness between my legs. 

I realize this is the most I’ve ever touched a man, and the most a man has ever touched me. 

“Not that I’m complaining or anything, but why were you out so late?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” I mumble into his neck. 

“Is there something on your mind?” I can’t tell him I had been thinking of him. Even here, lying in his arms, I’m too afraid to tell the truth. I lightly shake my head and he shivers when the tip of my nose tickles his skin.

“Just...things.”

“Is it...Mr. Hawthorne?” 

His words shatter the drowsy state I had been in. My heart hammers as I jerk back to look at his face. I can’t read him. 

“How did you…?”

“People in town have been talking.”

“What did they say?” 

“That you’re the only woman he’s interested in. All the ladies are very jealous, him being rich and all.” 

“I-” I’m lost for words. I didn’t know my hunting trip to Templeton was common knowledge, for surely that’s what they’re referring to. Mr. Hawthorne hadn’t paid me much attention at the ball. He had asked me for one dance and that’s not enough attention for others to claim he seemed “interested”. Hadn’t he danced with Marianne Cartwright as well? That gold-digger? So how do people know of…?

Then it hits me. 

Effie.

Effie must be circulating rumors, whispering ideas of Mr. Hawthorne’s attachment to me into the ears of Whitley’s ladies. She’s trying to solidify the standing I seemed to have gained in Mr. Hawthorne’s favor. She’s trying to ward off competition.

I would think it a genius move on her part, if I wasn’t so angry that she had gone ahead and done it without asking me first. Now if I don’t show equal affections for Mr. Hawthorne, in the eyes of Whitley, I will be treating him unfairly. Not as a proper lady should. For the highest honor a lady can be bestowed, in their eyes, is the attentions of a man.

“Is it true?” Peeta asks. His voice is flat. I can tell he’s trying to suppress emotion. 

“He’s...attentive.” 

“So it is.” He drops my braid and my heart clenches. I'm so afraid he's going to pull away from me that I clutch desperately to his shirt, my fingers knotting in the fabric. I search his eyes. He’s not angry. Why should he be? It’s not like our relationship is romantic. Our social stations are too far apart for that and we’ve made no promises. I’m not betraying him, so why does it feel like I am? 

He doesn’t shy away from my touch but I feel the mood break. His face is somber now. I want to say something to defend myself, though I don't know why. It's not like I owe Peeta an explanation for other people's feelings. Even with this thought urging me to keep my mouth shut, I can't help myself. 

“I don’t even know why he likes me,” I blurt.

Peeta smiles sadly down at me. I watch his Adam’s apple bob in the pale column of his throat.

“You have no idea, do you? Of the effect you have on people.”

I don’t know what he could possibly mean. I’m no great beauty, I’m no great lady. My belongings aren’t truly mine, they’re Haymitch’s. My manners are passable at best. My temper easily stoked. My one great talent is hunting and no one in town would approve of me flaunting that about. What effect do I have on people besides intriguing them with my wildness? The eternal battle within myself over whether to play or not to play by their rules?

Peeta must see the struggle in my eyes when I hesitate to respond. I can’t make sense of his words. His face still holds sadness, but his expression softens as he brushes a stray lock of hair off my brow and pulls me close again. His hand presses between my shoulder blades as I breathe him in, reveling in the feel of his body so close to my own. Our legs brush and I’m happy that he’s holding me, even if it’s only for a little while. 

“I’m tired,” he admits. He sounds exhausted and a twinge runs through me. I want to take care of him. This precious boy. 

“I’ll stay until you fall asleep,” I promise. 

And then we both nod off.


	9. The Pamphlet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katniss finds a peculiar pamphlet in Templeton's library.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!  
> Here's the latest chapter.  
> I wanted to take the time to thank everyone for such a positive response to this story. This is the longest work I've ever shared online and I'm not even finished with it yet. I appreciate every comment and kudo I've received and I didn't want those to go unnoticed. I'm so thrilled there are people who take the time to read this. I know this is just a fanfiction, but these characters have meant so much to me ever since I read the original Hunger Games books. I'm sure it's the same for you all. 
> 
> In other news, this is the chapter where I start sprinkling in more of the sexy stuff. It's like I'm adding red pepper flakes to a pizza, but the pizza is my story and the pepper flakes are sex. Ur welcome.

I wake and reach out across the nook for Peeta’s warmth. Instead, I find only the soft plush of the pillow his head had rested on. My eyes snap open. 

Peeta’s gone, the only signs he had even been here are the rumpled blankets and the bloodied cloth on the table. I stand from the nook, which is filled with sunlight now instead of shadows. There’s a leaf on the ground, placed deliberately at my feet. I pick it up and find there are words crudely carved on it. He must have used a stick.

_Gone home. Thank you._

I bite my lip as I’m flooded with guilt. I was supposed to comfort him and then leave, not fall asleep and forget to bring him breakfast. Lord knows he needed something to eat after losing all that blood. 

I stroke the leaf between my fingers and quietly hope he got home alright. 

I spot Haymitch’s coat on the floor where I left it and hastily brush the dirt off. Stuffing my arms into the sleeves, I quickly make my way up to the house. Dewey grass blades cling to my bare feet as I shade my eyes and glare up at the sun. Based on its position I’d say it’s past breakfast. By this time, my absence will have been noted, but maybe I can brush off my disappearance as an early morning walk. I’ve taken those before, since Haymitch lets me come and go as I please. I’m basically Buttercup, but with a key instead of a cat door. 

I enter the dining room to see Haymitch, sitting at the head of the table and opening mail with a knife. He’s saved food for me. I spot silver platters of bacon and cut fruit. He lifts his eyes from an especially long letter as I take the seat to his right.

“Is that my coat?” 

“It’s warm,” I shrug. 

“It’s dirty,” he quips.

I pour myself a cup of coffee and begin munching on a piece of bacon. “So’s that suit you're wearing.” I point at a pink stain on his lapel. Jam. He cranes his head to look. 

“So it is,” he smiles to himself and disappears again behind his letter. “Try wearing shoes the next time you go out.” He doesn’t ask me where I’ve been and I don’t bring it up. We lapse into a comfortable silence as I eat and he reads. This is what Haymitch is good at, I think. Knowing when not to talk. 

Weeks go by and I don’t see much of Peeta. Our paths cross occasionally in the woods, but he can never stay for long. Rye finally married and moved away, leaving Peeta the only son to help out around the bakery. He’s busy picking up the slack. He says he’s so sore from kneading that he can barely hold a paintbrush, and it’s especially bad when he has to lift heavy boxes or bags of flour. His wounds are still healing and I’m afraid so much physical exertion will rip his stitches, though he assures me they haven’t. He tells me his bruises are fading. 

“They’re more brown than purple now,” he declares. I try to smile, but my heart’s not behind it. I’m worried about him. 

With Peeta busy, I begin spending increasing amounts of time at Templeton. I’ve realized avoiding Gale was in fact deepening his affections for me. He’s a hunter, he likes the chase. So, knowing he’d come find me and I’d have to spend time with him eventually, I resorted to doing so in the comfort of his magnificent library. 

I now consider each member of the party a particular friend. Even Johanna, who, on deeper acquaintance, is quite fun to talk to. She has a wicked sense of humor and has me laughing to tears many nights. At times, I’m convinced she doesn’t like me, but then Finnick or Gale say something particularly dense, as men sometimes do, and we share secret looks and try to hide our snickering behind napkins. 

After a gentle nudge from Finnick, I attempt to get to know Annie, the shyest of the group. She’s mild-tempered and a little strange upon first acquaintance. Her emotions change faster than Effie’s and she tends to take offense to innocent comments, but once you get her alone she reveals a charming disposition and the most amazing pianoforte skills. It’s captivating really, how beautifully she can play that instrument. She tells me words aren’t her strength, but music is. She sits me down on the cushioned bench beside her and we spend an afternoon playing duets on the keys, though my clumsy fingers can’t possibly keep up with her skilled ones. Most of the songs end prematurely with us in hysterics. 

“You just missed three notes, Katniss!” She cackles. “C’mon then. Try again!” 

The weather has gotten cold and rainstorms are more frequent, so we’re forced inside most days. I watch Annie and Finnick thoughtfully as they plan their wedding. They ask my opinions about the decorations, the flower arrangements, what flavor icing they should have on the cake, but I’m really not much help. I nod when I like something and shrug when I don’t. I’m playing a game of cards with Johanna one evening when Finnick, clutching two color swatches of ceiling drapery, asks which I prefer. 

“Light purple?” He holds up one swatch. “Or spring lilac?” He holds up the other. 

“They’re the same color,” I point out. Finnick rolls his eyes and asks Johanna, who snorts and tells him the same thing. 

“You two are useless,” Finnick sighs. By the time our game is over, he’s still grumbling and comparing on the couch. Johanna rises from her chair, rips the light purple swatch out of Finnick’s hands, and throws the fabric into the fire. 

“There,” she announces. “Choice made.” She then struts off to bed without saying goodnight, her jade skirts disappearing beyond the doorway. Finnick stares dumbly at his empty hand and nods. 

“Spring lilac it is,” he proclaims, as if this was the choice he would eventually have come to. 

It’s clear by the looks Annie and Finnick exchange, the subtle touches, and the way they speak to one another, that they’re deeply in love. I’m as happy as I can be for them, but something dark twists within me when I see them being affectionate. 

I don’t want Finnick. Not romantically. So why does seeing him in love make me jealous?

Then there’s Gale. He was true to his word in allowing me free reign of his library. I spend hours browsing his shelves, reading his books, and sitting by his fire. He joins me on many occasions. His humor is soft, his manners impeccable, and as such has become a good friend. We talk of our childhoods, though I’m careful to skip over the worst parts of mine. I tell him of growing up on a farm and how different my life is now that I’m in Haymitch’s care, but nothing of the bitter, starving in-between. He tells me of his siblings and how much money each will inherit from him once they come of age. Gale is much older than they are, him being in his mid-twenties and his youngest sibling being a mere six years old. 

Effie coaches me on how to act and what to say to try and win his favor. Gentle smiles. A light brush of my hand on his arm. Coy glances across rooms. Giggling. 

I practice and perform. 

But even with my increased efforts aimed at Gale, there’s a constant nagging in the back of my head, a voice that warns me what I’m doing is insincere. That I’m lying to him, misrepresenting my true feelings for my own gain, and what kind of union would develop from such a deception? 

I try to ignore these thoughts. I’m going through with this for Prim, I tell myself. I’m not being selfish. Quite the contrary, I’m giving up my future happiness for her sake. 

These thoughts don’t settle my conscience though. Or distract me from my guilt. 

Only reading helps with that. 

I’m pacing the second-floor balcony of the Templeton library, looking for a title that catches my eye, when I spot something. There, in a dark abandoned corner, is a leather-bound book with a pamphlet sticking out from between its pages. The book is ordinary, a text documenting Panem’s conquest of the southern continents, but it’s the pamphlet that piques my interest. I pick it up, curious as to why it was left in such a peculiar place. It’s small, no bigger than my hand, and the cover is brown. Upon closer inspection, I see it has no title. I flip it open to the first page and almost drop the thing. 

Illustrated on the pages are naked men and women. 

My heartbeat quickens as I glance around the room, terrified that Gale will see me and demand I hand over whatever I’m reading, but I’m alone. It’s just me and the fire crackling merrily in the hearth. I open the pamphlet again and hesitantly thumb through the pages. 

It’s not the nudity that surprises me. I’ve seen plenty of nude statues and paintings. Gale has many displayed around the manor. They’re decorative pieces, meant to illustrate beauty, poise, and purity. 

That’s not at all what this pamphlet shows. 

I’m looking at sex positions. Each raunchier than the last. There are titles for every picture, and my eyes skim hungrily over the words. Some of the names are ordinary. Some are colorful. They all make me blush. 

The illustrations are even better. A woman balances on her knees, gazing up at a man while she lavishes his length with her tongue. A man mounts a woman and takes her from behind like I’ve seen animals in the forest do. My eyes bulge as I come across one woman pleasuring two men at a time, they’re heads thrown back in ecstasy. The drawings are so finely detailed, I’d almost call them beautiful. I've never seen a man’s parts drawn to look so swollen and rigid. Seeing the union of flesh sets my insides on fire.

My eyes linger on the men and I feel a warm jolt cascade through me. It starts at the top of my spine and collects in the dark place below my navel. I realize with a start that this must be sexual arousal. My body is preparing for base acts. I felt this the night Peeta held me, the memories of which only increase the sensations. I ignore the flutterings since this isn’t the place or the time to deal with them, but I can’t help the uncomfortable, almost painful tightness that coils between my legs. 

Surely this pamphlet isn’t Gale’s. He barely visits the library, and when he does, it’s to see me or to amuse himself by spinning one of the globes. I doubt he’s bothered to look up at the books on the balcony. Possibly this pamphlet belonged to a previous owner of Templeton and was forgotten in the move. 

A wicked thought occurs to me. 

Why not take it? Nobody will miss it, and didn’t Gale say to treat this library as my own? 

I slip the pamphlet into a small pouch sewn between my skirts and forget about it, until later that night, when I’m getting ready for bed. Octavia is undressing me when it falls out from its hiding place, landing on the floor with a deafening smack. She bends down to pick it up, but I’m quicker. I clutch it to my chest as she gives me a pointed look.

“It’s my journal,” I say defensively. I go to slide it under one of my pillows and then allow Octavia to dress me in a nightgown, brush and plait my hair, and then draw back the covers. I watch her out of the corner of my eye, plumping the pillows, but she doesn’t make a move for the pamphlet. She finally leaves after wishing me a “goodnight and sweet dreams” in that sing-song voice of hers. I thank her politely, then wait until the sound of her steps fade down the hall, before springing into action.

By the time I’ve read the thing, cover to cover, I find myself dripping. I’m astonished at my own body. It’s never responded so strongly to any of my daydreams this way. I quickly blow out the candle on my bedside table. In my eagerness, I manage to spill hot wax on the wood, but I ignore it as I settle into the quiet darkness. I slip a hand beneath the sheets and gently probe my folds, allowing my fingers to gather slickness. I spread my knees and lightly press in on myself. I’m scared I’m doing it wrong, and my heartbeat quickens as I anticipate pain. 

Eventually, I manage to slide one finger inside of myself. Though, by the sudden pinch, I know something is off. I wince, readjust, and try again. 

It’s hot down there. And oddly squishy. I’m not sure if I like this. 

I take my finger out and lay my head back on the pillow, frustrated. 

What am I doing wrong? Sex is supposed to be pleasurable for both men and women, right? Otherwise, the women wouldn’t look so happy in the illustrations. 

A thought occurs to me, that maybe I need a partner for anything to feel good. Going at things solo may not cut it. I’m overcome by a nervous thrill at the prospect of finding one. That will only happen through matrimony, our first physical union being the night of the wedding when we officially consummate our marriage. If my efforts are fruitful, it will be with Gale. 

I cast the thought of him aside, suddenly repulsed. 

I don’t need a partner. Halfway through the pamphlet, there’s a woman touching herself and enjoying it. I grab the pamphlet again and squint, trying to see the illustration in the dim moonlight that’s managed to filter past my curtains. The ink lady seems to be prodding something above her entrance. I hesitantly place my fingers higher up on myself and begin rubbing.

It feels...better. I’m still not sure if this is right but at least I’m not in pain. After a few minutes, I’m astonished to realize something is building. It’s slow, but it’s there. I first feel it on the flesh below my navel, a tingling sensation across my skin. I automatically call up memories to help me along. 

Those large veined hands, dotted with paint. The warm press of his lips on my palm. The rippling of his muscles, gleaming in the candlelight. The reverberations of his voice, deep and melodic, when I had pressed my ear to his throat. The delicious tautness of his body when I had held him under the covers.

Memories turn to daydreams as I imagine his large frame hovering above me. He gently presses a set of warm fingers against my slick entrance, leaving me mewling and quivering with need.

 _Let me in,_ he pleads. _Open yourself to me._

The subtle feelings grow. I feel a jolting current through the conduit of where my fingers meet my flesh. I imagine they’re Peeta’s. His phantom form watches me squirm beneath him, his eyes filled with a hungry lust. As I increase the pressure, something snaps. Nerve endings I never knew existed suddenly sizzle alive and spark. My hips jerk and I feel a violent quivering deep inside as I press my heels into the mattress. My inner walls clench around nothing. 

After the rush of feeling has swept through my body, I lay my head back and stare at the shadows on the ceiling. I still feel a residual throbbing under my fingers, as if my core had its own heartbeat. My mind is filled with his presence.

At this moment, I want to tangle my limbs with his and whisper secrets against his skin. I want to be back in the greenhouse, where he’d first held me, and take my time caressing his body. I want to cradle his most hidden parts in my hands. 

I whisper his name into the silence, as if saying it will summon the owner to my bed. But of course, he doesn’t appear. This isn’t a fairytale. 

And this isn’t right. 

After such great pleasure, the hot wave of shame that floods through me burns like acid. It’s not fair of me to corrupt our relationship like this. Peeta’s my friend and here I am fantasizing about him like he’s my lover. Who knows what he feels for me? 

My arousal is everywhere, it’s even managed to creep down the inside of my thighs. I wrinkle my nose as I wipe my sticky fingers off on the sheets and throw the pamphlet to the floor.

I'm disgusting. 


	10. Of Men and Mothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Finnick's wedding on the horizon, a favor is asked of Katniss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all,  
> If you live in the U.S., you've probably heard about George Floyd's murder and the many protests that are happening across the country to try and battle/bring awareness to racial injustice. I included a picture below of organizations you can donate to if you want to get involved. I know getting out and protesting is a bit daunting during a global pandemic, but that doesn't mean we should stand by and let horrible events like this get swept under the rug. 
> 
> I appreciate you reading this:)
> 
> Stay safe friends!

Even though I swear to never fantasize about Peeta again, I don’t stop. By day, I hide the pamphlet under a loose floorboard in my bedroom. By night, I rock against my fingers, chasing a release that’s only fueled by wicked thoughts of him. Each time I bring myself to a shuddering finish, I learn more about my own body. I've discovered that the direct prodding of a small nub above my entrance is the fastest way to bring myself to pleasure, seeing as I'm still too scared to try pressing my fingers in on myself again. 

I bite my lip, moaning quietly into the darkness of my bedroom when I imagine his hot mouth suckling the peaked mounds of my breasts, the feel of his fingers digging into the delicate flesh of my thighs, the rigid cock that dangles between his legs and springs eagerly from his trousers. I imagine it all in colorful detail. And hate myself for it afterward. 

The next time I see Peeta in person, we’re sitting on a large rock near the river. With all the rain we’ve had recently, the banks are flooded, and we’re careful to keep our boots above the dark, churning waterline. 

Peeta’s trying to have a conversation with me, something about how he’s just started working on Mr. Odair’s wedding cake, but I can barely meet his eyes. I keep thinking about my daydreams, of kissing him and having him in ways I shouldn't want to. Looking at Peeta makes it worse, so instead, I quietly watch dead leaves rush by in the current. The trees are almost completely bare now, their skeletons creak in the wind. I observe a particularly flexible dogwood tree bowing to the breeze, and my mind conjures up an image of Peeta, bending me over a table and thrusting into me until I’m a screaming, moaning mess. 

“Are you alright? You look a bit flushed.” He presses the back of his hand to my brow to check for fever. His skin is hot as a furnace compared to the bitter cold of the air. It’s a casual movement, a friend’s touch that shouldn’t scare me, but I jerk away all the same. I stare at his slender fingers, flushing harder when a quiet voice urges me to pull them into my mouth and suck on them. I thrust the thought aside. 

“So you started Finnick’s cake?” I regard him fully now. He looks festively handsome, wearing a thick black coat with dull silver buttons and a fraying blue scarf that enhances the color of his eyes. The tip of his nose and the very tops of his cheeks are raw from the cold.

“Yeah…” He eyes me suspiciously. He’s not sure why I’ve suddenly changed the subject, but instead of enlightening him, I forge on. 

“What did they ask for?”

“Flowers. Lots of sugar flowers. I was up all night making them.” He lifts his palms for me to see. His hands are deeply stained with purple dye. 

Let me guess. “Lilacs?” Clearly they decided on the theme. Good. If they’ve finally settled on everything, they’ll stop pestering me for my opinions. 

Peeta nods and drops his hands. “Mr. Odair said he fell in love with Annie by a lilac bush.” He laughs lightly as I wrinkle my nose. “I think it’s sweet. He wants a symbol of their love on the cake.” 

“Finnick’s a romantic,” I grumble and throw a pebble into the water, managing a nice splash. I catch him grinning, his eyes flash knowingly. His smiles always stir up warmth within me, as if he were coaxing dead coals into bursting flame. I feel the sensation slowly spread from my chest to my fingertips. He’s still watching me closely. “What?”

“You sound disapproving. Not the romantic type?” 

I frown. “I guess I’ve never allowed myself to be.” His smile widens as he shakes his head. I place a pebble into his palm, which he rolls between his fingers, before chucking it into the stream. His splash is bigger than mine was. I’m suddenly curious about his take on all this. Peeta seems like the same sappy, romantic type as Finnick. 

“What would you get on yours?” I ask.

Peeta exhales slowly and stares off into the graying distance. I watch his breath crystallize and cling to his head like a wreath. The playfulness I saw seconds ago has vanished, replaced by something somber. 

“If I could choose, it’d be orange flowers,” he says quietly. His cheeks flood with color. “And green. I’d put lots of green on it.” 

I remember his favorite color is orange. Muted, like a sunset. Or like the orange aster blossoms he helped me pick for Prim that day in the willow clearing. 

“You’re going to make your own cake? Shouldn’t you have someone else do it while you relax a bit?”

He chuckles. “Well, you have to remember, the cake wouldn’t just be for me.” 

In the quiet moments that follow, I allow myself to imagine Peeta’s wedding. He wears a black suit, freshly ironed just for the occasion. There’s a small gathering of family and friends in the village church, watching on as he unveils his fiancé. A haunting echo of bells fills the air as the priest announces them, man and wife. I envision Peeta’s bride. Surely he’ll fall for a hardworking village beauty with the heart of an angel. She’ll have his love. His lips. His utter admiration. In the years following their union, she’ll share his bed, take him inside of herself, and grow round with his children. Blonde babes blessed with his lively blue eyes, his joyful laugh, and his gentle disposition. Little bakers and painters and lovers of life. Chubby cheeks and sticky fingers. 

And he will never harm them. 

I have to physically swallow the monstrous waves of longing that threaten to overtake me. I viciously remind myself that he’s my friend, not my beloved. I don’t own Peeta. His future is not mine. And I shouldn’t be jealous of some hypothetical girl.

His face drops as he watches my struggle. His eyebrows crease in worry. 

“Seriously, are you alright? You look like you’re gonna be sick.” I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. I’m like a gasping fish out of water. I cough, trying to dislodge my voice.

“I might’ve...caught a cold.” I don’t sound very convincing but Peeta nods. He jumps off the rock, offering me his hand as I step down. Our palms stay clasped together a beat after I’m safely on the ground and I gaze curiously up at him. His lips are slightly parted and I can tell there’s something he wants to say, but I break his hold and take a step back. He purses his lips. Whatever thought he wanted to share, he keeps to himself. 

Peeta walks me home. We step in tandem, kicking at stray leaf piles along the road as we go. At one point, a strong gust of wind rips the hat off my head and carries it into the skeletal forest. Peeta offers to get it for me, saying he doesn’t want me to ruin my dress. I laugh as I look down at my hem, already caked in mud, but I don’t argue with him. His retreating figure disappears behind tree trunks as he scours piles of wet leaves. I’m left grinding the toe of my boot into a sad-looking patch of dead grass, when I hear someone call my name. 

I stiffen.

It’s Elizabeth Martin, a member of Marianne Cartwright’s close-knit circle, and her husband, Adam. I feel my blood rush as my eyes dart to the trees, but Peeta’s nowhere in sight. To them, it looks as if I’m alone. 

Elizabeth Martin is a kind girl, though a bit dull to talk to. Any conversations I’ve had with her have been about the latest fashions from the Capitol, or whether or not she should refurbish her sitting room. She’s the middle child of Whitley’s butcher and she married Mr. Martin last spring. He’s a well-liked and locally wealthy cattle farmer, and I assume the union between a man with cows and the daughter of a butcher is beneficial for both their families. He’s not exorbitantly rich, but he makes enough money to pay for a large two-story stone house with a vegetable garden, and by Whitley’s usual standards, ignoring the outliers of Haymitch and Mr. Hawthorne, that counts as wealthy. 

Elizabeth has hazel eyes, dark brown hair, and a rather large nose. She approaches me now, holding sweetly onto her husband’s arm. 

“Miss Everdeen, it’s so nice to see you. Have you heard the news?” She places a gloved hand over her bulging stomach. “We’re expecting!” 

“Congratulations,” I manage, but I’m distracted. Hopefully, Peeta will hear us talking and hide a while longer. 

“My mother thinks it’s a girl, but my darling here swears we’re having a boy.” She tweaks her husband’s nose and laughs. The sound is high pitched and grating. 

Adam Martin nods at me in greeting but doesn’t try to add to the conversation, clearly under the impression that this is purely lady’s business, even though we’re talking of his wife’s condition and not of her dresses. 

“You prefer one over the other?” My tone is abrasive. I’m too on edge to try and dial myself back, but Elizabeth goes on as if I had addressed her with a voice as sweet as candy fluff. 

“I wouldn’t mind a girl, though boys are better for the farm. We need an heir after all.” She continues babbling, talking of cribs and cloth diapers. She even compliments my dress at one point, saying she’s considering painting the nursery the exact same shade of red. And what a rich coat! What splendid rabbit fur cuffs! Fur is all the rage in the Capitol right now, don’t you know?

I can’t help but stare at her mouth. Her lips move so fast, it’s like I’m watching laundry snap in the breeze. I should be trying to get them going on their way, but I’ve somehow managed to open a conversational floodgate. I tense when I hear the growing sounds of footsteps from the trees. Elizabeth’s voice drops off as she and her husband turn curiously to see who’s coming. 

“Peeta Mellark, is that you?” Mr. Martin calls. He drops his wife’s arm and goes to shake Peeta’s hand. “It’s been too long mate.” 

“It’s good to see you again, Adam. Hello, Elizabeth. Congratulations, by the way. George Seville told me the news.” He smiles warmly at them but doesn’t address me, though I see my muddied hat in his hand. Elizabeth glances between the two of us, her expression deeply puzzled. 

“Are you acquainted with Miss Everdeen, Peeta?” 

My breath stutters. I’m a terrible liar, and Elizabeth is quite the gossip, being friends with almost all the young ladies in town. With her proclivity for chat and her vast connections, she’s possibly the worst person to discover us on the road. But Peeta doesn’t seem bothered by this, as he turns to me and hands me my hat as if he were handing me change at the bakery. 

“We know each other in passing. Miss Everdeen and I went to school together as children and we happened upon each other just now.” Peeta and I have never officially talked of how others would perceive our relationship, or of how we would handle a situation like this, but I can tell from his measured demeanor and the indifferent way he trains his eyes on me that he fully understands the importance of hiding the truth. I’m astonished at how vacant he’s made his expression, looking upon me like I’m a stranger. As if I haven’t spent a night stitching together his bleeding flesh. As if he never cradled me in his arms when we slept. As if he doesn’t particularly care for me. 

I know we can’t be seen alone together. I know any familiar acquaintance of ours outside of dancing at public balls or bakery business is improper, but all the same, my heart stings as he turns away. 

How easy is it for Peeta to lie? 

There’s a long pause where Elizabeth seems to look at me for further explanation. 

“I was walking home and my hat fell,” I offer, lifting it so they see what Peeta had been in the woods for. “Thank you for retrieving it, Mr. Mellark. That was very kind of you.” I give him a jerky curtsy and try to quiet my stuttering heart. 

“You don’t have a chaperone with you?” Mr. Martin asks, drawing his bushy eyebrows together in worry. “It can be dangerous out here for a lady like yourself if you’re not accompanied.” 

I want to laugh in his face. I could probably ward off any threat with my bare hands better than he could with a knife, but I hold my tongue. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the subtle flash of Peeta’s dimples. He must know what I’m thinking. 

“I’m usually chaperoned by Mr. Abernathy, but he’s come down with something awful. I assure you, Mr. Martin, I’m quite alright out here by myself for the time being, especially since Mr. Mellark came to my rescue.” I reflexively clasp my hands, hoping the quiver in my voice doesn’t reveal that I’m lying through my teeth. 

Haymitch is perfectly healthy, disregarding the occasional bouts of drinking and the crippling hangovers that follow, but the story is believable, at least to Mr. Martin, who has no reason to doubt me. He turns jovially back to Peeta. 

“Are you headed back into town? We were just going to pay a visit to Elizabeth's parents and we’d love to catch up with you on the walk in.” I don’t think they mean to, but the trio have angled their bodies to exclude me. I’m not from the village. I’m a stranger to this group of old friends. Peeta doesn’t try to remedy this as I wait awkwardly on the outskirts of their conversation. 

Finally, we part ways as I turn towards home and Peeta joins the Martins. I bid them all farewell, shooting Peeta a meaningful glance that I hope conveys, _see you next time._ He winks at me, then turns to follow his friends. My eyes linger on the road as he disappears beyond the bend. 

I breathe a heavy sigh of relief as I pass under Victor Greene’s gate. Peeta handled that especially well. Hopefully, Elizabeth bought it and we haven’t been discovered. Though I know she’ll at least mention the event to a few friends. I can picture her now, gossiping around a table with Marianne Cartwright and her village circle. _Guess what pair I ran into!_

Sometimes, I think Whitley’s ladies are sharper than our detectives when it comes to figuring people out. We’ll have to be especially careful in the future not to be caught alone with one another, unless at the bakery or in large public places. We can’t risk stirring up further suspicion. 

The wedding will be the perfect time to see him again. I urged Finnick and Annie to put him on the official guest list, since Peeta is delivering the cake anyway. It’s a large gathering where people of all social standing can intermingle. Perhaps he’ll ask me to dance again. A thrumming fills my body at the prospect. 

I’ve just entered the front hall and have taken off my coat when I bump into Gale. He must be leaving since he already has his hat on. 

“Katniss! There you are. I’m so glad I caught you.” His eyes linger on my windblown hair and the mud at my hem, before snapping back to my face. I note a slight glint of disgust in his eyes, but then he blinks and it’s gone, replaced by an air of friendliness. 

I clench my teeth. If only he would let me know when he planned to visit ahead of time, I could make myself more presentable! Even a simple note would suffice! Perhaps he’s used to people waiting around for him. 

“Whenever I come to see you, you’re always out on a walk. Not avoiding me are you?” I’m sure he meant this as a joke, but his skeptical tone causes the jest to fall flat. I laugh anyway. 

“Not at all, Gale. You just have a talent for coming at the wrong times.” 

“The only skill I regret to have,” he chuckles. 

“Shall I call for some tea? Maybe some biscuits?”

“Oh, no. Don’t bother. I just stopped by to have a quick chat. Really to ask a few things of you.” 

“Oh,” I say timidly. “Alright.” He gingerly lifts the top hat off his head, revealing his boyishly ruffled hair.

“My mother is coming to the wedding and I’d very much like you to meet her. I’ve told her a lot about you in my letters.” 

His mother? I don’t remember much about her from my studies, only that she married the elder Mr. Hawthorne when she was very young. Now that he’s dead and her eldest son inherited, she lives in one of the family townhouses with Gale’s three younger siblings. It makes sense that she’d be invited to the wedding, seeing as Finnick and Gale are old friends.

I nod. Of course I’ll agree to meet his mother. It’d be rude of me not to, seeing how close Gale and I have become. I inquire if his siblings are coming too, sure that Prim would love some playmates closer to her age. As excited for the wedding as she is, I know once the initial introductions are over she’ll get bored surrounded by so many stuffy adults, and I’m sure Gale and Finnick will want to introduce me to all sorts of guests from the Capitol: family members, business partners, and old friends who have ventured out into the countryside to celebrate such a happy occasion. I’ll be too preoccupied to entertain Prim the whole time. 

Rory is fourteen, and Vick is eleven. Surely Prim would get along with them. Maybe they’ll even get into a spot of trouble, which I think would be good for her. But my hopes quickly deflate when Gale tells me they remain in Town, looked after by the family governess. I assume that’s all he came for, and am about step aside so he can go on his way, when he reaches out and gingerly takes my hand. 

His skin is soft and pliant, so unlike Peeta’s hard calluses from a lifetime of work. My hand hangs awkwardly limp in his. I had not expected him to reach out, seeing as in past occasions, I had been the only one to initiate physical contact. If you could call it that. Really it was a few touches to his arm. Maybe a good-natured shoulder bump. That’s what I consider flirting apparently. But for a gentleman like Gale, touching a lady is saved for specific occasions, such as greetings or dancing. This is neither. 

“I hope this isn’t too forward, but during the wedding…” He smiles, almost to himself. “I plan to remain close to you throughout the evening.” 

“To dance?” I ask, confused. 

“Indeed, I only want to dance with you. But not only that, I’d like you on my arm. As my date.” 

“Oh,” I try to hide my disappointment, but it’s hard when my hopes of dancing with Peeta are disintegrating before my very eyes. I pull my face into a tight smile before he can catch anything amiss. “I would be honored, sir.”

“Good. I’m looking forward to seeing you all dolled up again.” His gaze flits to my hem once more and my cheeks flush with embarrassment. 

I bid him farewell, watching as he rides his horse into the distance, and then go upstairs to my bedroom. I try to read but I can’t focus on the page. I’ve vaguely skimmed through four paragraphs before I realize I haven’t retained any of the story. My own thoughts are racing.

His date? Perhaps my flirtations are working better than I thought. Not only that but he wants me to meet his mother. I’m sure, even as rich and powerful as Gale is, he wouldn’t dare marry without approval from the family’s matriarch. 

My suspicions are confirmed the next day during my lessons when I tell Effie of Mrs. Hawthorne’s coming to meet me. Her painted face lights up like a sunray. She’s practically glowing.

“Oh, Katniss,” she crows. “You’ve done such a wonderful job. I don’t say this to hurt your feelings but I wasn’t sure if you could actually pull this off. But look at you now! He wants you to meet his mother! He’s practically down on one knee already!” She twirls excitedly around the room, her periwinkle skirts flying dangerously close to the fire. 

Perhaps this is my last test. If I impress Mrs. Hawthorne, Gale will propose. Instead of feeling relieved, or even happy, I find myself despairing. 

For some reason, I thought I would have more time.


	11. The Wedding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katniss attends Finnick and Annie's wedding.

There’s a delivery for me at breakfast the next morning. It comes in a solid gold box that’s so heavy I nearly drop it when Stevenson hefts it into my arms. As I undo the heavy clasp, Prim jumps out of her seat, abandoning her poached eggs and ham. 

Inside, carefully displayed on a bed of velvet, is the most beautiful necklace I’ve ever seen. It’s large and gold, like the box it came in, and the metalwork is arranged in a lovely corona, meant to drape over the wearer’s neck and collarbones. Surely, the gold alone costs upwards of three thousand pounds, but what makes it truly special, are the inlaid gemstones. Gleaming rubies and sapphires, specks of quartz and amber, chips of sunstone and opal, all glittering in the morning light streaming in from the window. I watch the colors, blazing and melding together in harmony. The illusion is clear. 

Tongues of fire. 

“There’s a note!” Prim exclaims, lifting a creamy white envelope from the box. I break the wax seal, embossed with a hawthorn blossom, and begin reading.

_Katniss,_

_Please accept this necklace as a token of my affections for you. It once belonged to First Lady, Georgiana Snow, whom you remind me of. Not only do I hope to spoil you more in the future, I also hope to see this around your neck at the wedding._

_Yours,_

_G.H._

Georgiana Snow was the wife of our Prime Minister, Coriolanus Snow, until about three years ago when she and her son died in childbirth. The entire country was in mourning, wearing black, and flying the Panem seal at half-mast on every flagpole. Despite the tragedy of losing his wife and heir in one fell swoop, the Prime Minister recovered fairly quickly, and so followed the nation. 

Snow’s rumored to be cold. Calculating. A political genius who single-handedly ushered Panem into a golden age of military expansion. We’ve built colonies around the world that provide the nation with sugar, lumber, ore, tobacco, tea, whale oil, and cloth, all because Snow upended Panem’s pockets into funding military campaigns into the southern continents and uncharted regions. Ever since he diverted resources out of the country, the lower class has suffered a great deal, but even though he’s abandoned the direct needs of the people, he’s still worshipped like a king in the Capitol.

After all, the wealthy reap the rewards.

Because of Haymitch’s lack of connection, I’ve never met the Prime Minister, since he runs in circles with powerful families who’ve made their fortunes off of weapons development. I guess that includes the Hawthornes, whose deep pockets help fund the expeditions. He lives in a city where you’re either a military official, bureaucrat, politician, or the wife of such. 

Haymitch has no close military connections unless you count his friend, Commander Chaff Greendale, who we rarely see since he was given command of a military base on the Alabaster Coast. He’s too busy to invite us to Town or even to visit Victor Greene, which I’m thankful for. Mr. Greendale makes me uncomfortable ever since he grabbed me and tried to kiss me on a particularly inebriated night. When he does come, he drinks up the liquor and tells loud dirty jokes in the parlor while Prim and I huddle upstairs. I’ve considered telling Haymitch of my dislike for the man, but they’re such close friends, perhaps the only one Haymitch has, and I can’t bring myself to complain. 

But this Snow...he’s never been known as a sentimental man, so it makes sense that he'd wanted to get rid of any reminder of his deceased wife. 

But how did Gale get his hands on her necklace? And what possessed him to compare us? I can’t fathom what similarities Georgiana and I would have shared, even when she was alive. The girl was beautiful, one of the most sought after ladies in the nation before she had accepted Snow’s hand. I’ve heard very disagreeable things about him, nothing to promote husbandly affection or romance, but perhaps she liked his fortune, or the station that being his wife would provide. 

Or perhaps, she thought being the Prime Minister’s wife would give her heightened protection. How sad that her union was eventually her undoing.

Surely Snow didn’t sell his wife’s belongings. He has enough money already and I doubt he held an auction since many would view that as tacky and disrespectful to Georgiana’s memory. That poor girl. 

“I can’t accept this,” I sigh, closing the lid with a heavy thud. Prim’s face falls. 

“Why not? It’s so beautiful!” I’m reminded of how young she is. She sees an extravagant gift and can’t even fathom the strings attached. I don’t like owing people, even if what they give me is meant as a gift, or in Gale’s words: a token of his affections. I would pay him back myself, but I have no money and even Haymitch, as wealthy as he is, couldn’t afford such an extravagance as this. The gold, perhaps, but not the gems. 

But besides the issue of money, the necklace seems... tainted. The air around it is heavy and dark, as if Georgiana Snow’s ghost still desperately clings to it. I resolve to send it back the next day, but Effie stops me. 

“Katniss, don’t be ridiculous! Sending it back would be incredibly rude! Besides, you’re practically engaged already. What is his will soon be yours.” 

I lug the box back to my room, my throat painfully tight. She’s right. It would be rude, and I can’t afford to risk my hold over Gale’s heart. Not when I’m so close to accomplishing what I set out to do in the first place: marry the man. 

It's not until the day of the wedding, when I'm being dressed for the ceremony, that I realize what else bothers me about the necklace. The gemstones glitter heavily at my throat and when I watch my reflection out of the corner of my eye, I can almost imagine I’ve been engulfed in bright flames. It’s extravagant, meant to lend beauty to the wearer, but I know what it really is. A symbol. Gale couldn't have crafted a clearer message if he had insisted I wear a dog collar. 

Despite the growing pit in my stomach, I spend a good amount of time admiring myself in the mirror. So rarely do I have the occasion to look this beautiful, and I can admit it: I do look beautiful. My hand servants have worked their magic again. My olive skin glows healthy and clear, while my dark hair has been pinned up in an intricately braided crown. My lips are painted a glossy red, made to look full and plump, while my cheeks have been lightly rouged, and my eyes gleam silver against a thin line of charcoal. 

Mr. Ludgate crafted another one of his exquisite dresses just for me. The gown is red with puffy tulle sleeves that sweep down to cinched wrists and skirts that flare elegantly from my waist and pool about my legs, blessing me with the illusion of wider hips. Birthing hips, as Effie would call them. A fair bit of my cleavage is exposed, the rounded tops of my breasts peek out from the satin corseted bodice, but somehow my modesty is still intact. The gown is sexy yet subdued. Just as ordered. 

“You look beautiful, darling,” Effie says, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. “If Mr. Hawthorne doesn’t throw himself at your feet upon seeing all this, he doesn’t deserve you.” I bid a tearful Effie goodbye, but not before she pats me on the head lightly, as if she were trying to figure out how best to pet a wild dog.

I step outside and witness a cold, gray day. No one would choose this as the weather for a wedding, least of all me, who, when forced into it, still fantasizes about what that day will look like. In quiet, confusing moments, I picture a spring afternoon full of rolling clouds and sweet, earthy breezes and the gentle notes of birdsong in budding trees. A white dress and veil. Perhaps flowers in my hair. 

Simple and utterly permanent. 

Once on the road, I watch Prim’s flouncy skirts bounce with her legs as she anxiously flits about the carriage. She can barely contain her excitement. Haymitch urges her to sit down, afraid she’ll hit her head on the compartment ceiling if we hit a bump along the road, and she complies, but I can still hear the dull thumping of her heels against the wood floor. I secure a couple of her coat buttons that have come undone and stroke her curls to try and calm her down. 

Normally, I would find Prim’s excitement cute, but today it just leaves me anxious. If this is how she reacts to a wedding for acquaintances, how will she react to mine? There’s no way I can muster up the same excitement as her. What a dour bride I’ll be. 

The ceremony takes place in the Whitley church, an old, crumbling building, as all buildings are in Whitley, with stained glass windows and a small bell tower. The walls outside are choked with dead ivy hanging limply off the white stones, and I wonder why Finnick and Annie didn’t want to get married in the spring when the world would be in full bloom. They couldn’t wait any longer to be together I guess. 

We’re not the first to arrive. Already the pews have begun to fill with guests, their echoing chatter bouncing off the walls as we search for our names. There are people here I’ve never seen before. The Capitol bred friends and family of the couple. Many of them are staying in guest rooms at Templeton, the others at the Whitley inn. I bet being out in the countryside is a real shock. Perhaps the bracing fresh air and clear skies are foreign to them since I always envisioned the Capitol to be a dreadfully polluted place.

From a person’s outfit, you can determine from where they hail. All the Capitol people wear sparkling plumes in their hair, or have painted their faces completely white and then traced on new features over the makeup, or have matched the color of their wigs to their lipstick. I see one man with eyes that change color when he blinks, a woman wearing a flamingo pink dress so large and puffy that she can’t sit down and instead has to stand awkwardly against the wall, and another woman whose wig is actually just a cage containing a small, red monkey atop her head. In contrast, all the country folk wear their simple finery and try not to openly gape at the Capitol freaks. 

Family is seated near the front of the church, and friends sit in the rows behind them. The further away from the front, the less important you are. We end up somewhere in the middle, and as soon as we’re settled, I look around for Peeta. With every sweep of my eyes over the crowd I spot a flash of blonde hair, but it’s never him. I find Madge five rows away and try to get her attention, however discreetly, as being caught flailing about would be looked down upon. She smiles and waves, looking beautiful in a gown of pale green. My stomach settles a bit at seeing a familiar face, though seeing Madge also elicits a pang of guilt. Ever since I’ve started spending time with Peeta, I haven’t gone into town to see her. Not even our lessons have overlapped since I’m on the cusp of marriage and she has yet to find any takers. I turn away. 

As I’m waiting for the ceremony to start, pleading with Prim to sit still and eyeing Haymitch who’s fiddling with a flask sized lump in his coat pocket, I notice a number of people have started watching me. The closest is a Capitol man donning a gray handlebar mustache and an ugly turquoise coat with what seem to be purple embroidered doves on the sleeves. A woman, his daughter I assume, or maybe his wife, I really can’t tell, peeks out from behind his frame. They’re both staring intently at me. No, not at me. 

My necklace. 

I flush angrily and avoid eye contact. Don’t people know staring is rude?

They eye each other and start exchanging hushed whispers. I can’t make out what they’re saying but by the venomous glare the lady shoots my way and the loud harrumph the man lets out, I know it isn’t good. Perhaps they know who it originally belonged to, or maybe they know it’s from Gale. Possibly, they disapprove of such a wealthy Capitol man courting a country bum. For the first time, a rush of pride swells within me when I think of my impending engagement. I’ll give Gale some credit here. Courting me is pretty ballsy. 

Prim tugs on my sleeve and points to Finnick who’s just appeared out of a side door. He looks equal parts handsome and nervous as he joins the priest, an old, wrinkly man named Father Conrad. Soon, the organist starts playing a song better fit for a funeral procession than a wedding, but I turn in tandem with the crowd as all eyes press towards the church entrance. Everyone takes a collective sigh when Annie appears in the doorway. 

The ceremony is exactly how I described it to Prim. We sit in polite silence as Father Conrad drones on about what it means to love and cherish, the sanctity of marriage, divine blessings of God, and so on. His jowls quiver with every new word and I spot numerous women grab for their handkerchiefs and dab carefully at their eyes so as not to smudge their makeup. 

Finally, Father Conrad bids Finnick and Annie to exchange their vows. Annie’s voice is small and shaky compared to Finnick’s steady one, but afterward, they kiss, solidifying their union. The church cheers, throwing rice and flower petals when the couple makes their way down the aisle and to the carriage that will transport them back to Templeton for the reception. Annie, in a white lacey gown and veil, catches my eye and waves as she makes her way past our pew. It’s all so perfect, almost like one of Prim’s fairytale books that she has me read to her before bedtime. 

The reception is held in the grand ballroom at Templeton, the one that had been so empty and quiet when Gale gave me the tour, only to now be filled with the golden, flickering glow of hundreds of candles and the loud, raucous roar of a party underway. The curved stone rafters, way up high, have been decorated with the lilac draperies Finnick had picked, strings of crystal beads that send flickering rainbows dancing across the marble floor, and hanging flower arrangements bursting with white baby’s breath and fragrant violet blossoms. 

On the far wall, under the tall windows that provide a view out onto the frostbitten gardens, is the buffet. There are tables upon tables heavily laden with an assortment of food: dark broth soups with floating baby corn and chunks of chicken, baskets filled to the brim with golden bread rolls, trays of bacon-wrapped scallops, sauteed asparagus and thin slices of pork in a white cream sauce, whole chickens roasted with rosemary and garlic, steamed lobster, heavy pats of butter, raw oysters with lemon juice and horseradish, and a full table of desserts ranging from macaroons to puff pastries to fruit tarts to puddings. But as good as the buffet looks, the crowning jewel is Peeta’s cake. 

It’s a five-tiered masterpiece of white buttercream frosting and painstakingly crafted sugar lilacs. It looks as if he’s gone out and picked actual flowers to adorn the cake with, but I eye Annie, giddy and already a tad tipsy off the champagne flutes being circulated throughout the hall, as she plucks a flowering bud from the top and pops it into her mouth. The whole place smells of food and flowers and excitement, and unlike during the ceremony, when I had eyed everything critically, I allow myself to be swept up in the mania. 

Haymitch has trailed after Prim, who, upon entering the hall, had not only spun around in a circle to catch a glimpse of all the finery and opulence but had made a beeline for the punch bowl. I stand by the entrance, not sure if I should go looking for Gale or Peeta or for Madge, who I’m desperate to talk with. There have been so many men in my life recently, I want to be in the confidence of my one friend who I know understands what I’m going through. 

I nearly jump out of my skin when I feel the hard press of a hand on my back. 

It’s not Madge, but Gale, come to find me. He looks handsomely dapper in crisply pressed linen and burgundy velvet. As fine as the clothes are, I groan inwardly. Just my luck, we dressed in the same color. We look like a matched set. 

His eyes alight upon the necklace, the tan expanse of his face filling with a broad, good-natured grin. 

“Do you like it?” He’s expecting me to gush, to offer my sincerest thanks, and perhaps offer a gentle touch or a batting of my eyes in return for such generosity. I need to give him something, so I offer physical affection in the form of smoothing down his cravat and then lightly resting my palms on his chest. 

“It’s beautiful Gale, truly. But perhaps your mother wants it? Or maybe you can give it to your sister when she’s older?” 

“Nonsense. I gave it to _you,_ Katniss,” he murmurs as he leads me into the thick crowd. If I thought the stares were uncomfortable in the church, the ones set upon me here are unbearable. Gale notices the eyes of course because they’re now directed at him as well. Instead of thrusting me aside as I expect him to, he slides his hand to the curve of my waist and sets his shoulders back, straightening up to his full height. He’s like a mountain, and I feel the rumbling in his chest when he speaks. 

“Horribly rude. Every single one of them. Don’t you agree?” 

“Indeed,” I chuckle under my breath. He addresses a sour-faced man in a silver top hat, then smiles at a scowling woman in shimmery jewel-toned skirts. His expression is light, friendly even, but his tone is dark and full of annoyance. 

“Ignore them. People tend to forget their manners when they've had a couple of drinks.” I squirm under his hand, slowly sneaking from its place at my waist and down to the flesh of my hips. 

“And how many drinks have you had, sir?”

He laughs lightly, still nodding and waving politely at curious faces in the crowd. “I hope you know, I don't have to be drunk to want to touch you, my lady.” He suddenly leans towards me, trapping my body against his side and pressing his mouth to the shell of my ear. I smell the sickly sweet scent of champagne on his breath. “You look stunning by the way.”

He’s holding me so close I shiver. I don’t feel disgusted since Gale’s not a disgusting man, but compared to Peeta’s softhearted touches, these seem...hungry. We press on through the crowd and I try not to blush too deeply when we finally reach the table where his mother sits, alone amongst chairs for eight. Gale hasn’t let go of me, even in her presence, and I have to wonder what sort of impression he thinks he’s making. Surely, we should present ourselves more modestly. The time for touching is after the vows.

Hazelle Hawthorne is a dark-haired, middle-aged woman with piercing green eyes and a stern face. Gale resembles her stark handsomeness closely, their tanned olive complexions are almost identical, though I spot a light smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose that her son lacks. Her dress is dark green, as deep and earthy as the forest in midsummer, and her wavy hair has been pinned up beneath an elegant lace bonnet. She smiles and stands slowly when she sees us emerge from the crowd, but her expression is reminiscent of someone pretending they don’t smell something foul. My palms begin to sweat. 

Gale introduces us, and we sit down in silence. Mrs. Hawthorne compliments the estate, telling her son of how happy she is he found somewhere proper to settle in such a sparse land. I can tell by the tired nod Gale gives her that this isn’t the first time she’s expressed these sentiments. She probably just wanted me to hear her describe my county as ‘sparse’. 

Hateful woman. 

Gale tells his mother of my most amiable qualities. He speaks of how kind, witty, and educated I am and spends a great deal of time describing my close relationship with Prim. He’s making me out as the maternal type. 

Of course he is. I shouldn’t be surprised. A mother only wants the best for her son, and the best I can offer this family is my womb. Perhaps if Gale fails in winning her over, my dress, the one that emphasizes my childbearing hips, will somehow convince her of my worthiness. 

We women don’t say much, as we’re obligated to allow Gale to finish his speech. He does eventually close his mouth, his words settle, and his mother, who now looks slightly less put out, turns to address me. Her green eyes glow like a cat’s. 

“It seems I’ve heard a great deal about you from my son, Miss Everdeen, but I have yet to hear _you_ speak of the matter.”

I try not to stammer too hard when I open my mouth in polite response. “The matter, your ladyship?” 

“Oh, don’t be daft girl. I’ve just sat through a whole lecture on your intelligence and charm. I suppose you are pretty, though not in the usual sense. You carry yourself well, and I hope, after having been so closely acquainted with my son these past few months, that you possess deeper feelings for him than the affections many a young lady has had for his fortune?” Her eyes glint meanly as the inside of my mouth turns to cotton. I’ve never met a more openly proud and cruelly outspoken woman in my life. 

“Mother…” Gale chides, but his turn for talking is over. He falls into silence, pursing his lips when she shoots him a stern look. 

“No, your ladyship!” My ears burn so red that they match my dress. I feel Gale’s hand tighten around my knee under the table, his nails digging painfully into the soft flesh. I knew this would be a test but I had not prepared for it to be this difficult. 

“‘No’ what? You do not love my son?” 

“No, I do have feelings for Gale-” I backtrack when I see the scandalized look on her face. “Mr. Hawthorne, I mean. He’s been kinder to me than I deserve. I would never abuse him in such a way as you’ve described.” A sharp, piercing twinge runs through me. If only that were true. 

Our tense conversation carries on while the party rages. We practically have to shout over the music and the cheerful din that’s sprung up from the dance floor. Gale’s mother grills me on my connections and my childhood and my relations and my skills. I desperately long for one of the champagne flutes floating about, but no tray comes my way. 

I glimpse people on the dance floor make room for Finnick and Annie as they cut a swirling path right through the crowd. Prim perches on the sidelines standing up on her tiptoes and pulling on Haymitch’s arm in excitement. She was promised the next dance. 

We eventually bid Mrs. Hawthorne goodbye as Gale leads me away from the dancers and to the buffet, but not before the pair share a long, meaningful look that I can’t decipher. I don’t try to either. I want nothing more than to stuff my face with lobster right now. What a dreadful encounter that had been. 

I tell Gale so, but he just smiles and picks up a plate. 

“Actually, I think she liked you.”

“Liked me? She laughed when I said my father was a farmer and scowled for the rest of it!”

“If she disliked you she would have sent you away immediately. Trust me, it’s happened before.” I drop the serving spoon back into its tureen of lamb stew and nearly splatter my dress. Gale doesn’t take any notice as he’s scooping a large serving of scalloped potatoes onto his plate. 

So he’s courted others. I shouldn’t be surprised by this. He’s nearly twenty-five and still unmarried. I haven’t really thought on that fact much, but it is curious that he’s still single. He’s handsome and eligible, but perhaps his lioness of a mother has driven off all of his previous attachments. Didn’t she nearly do so with me? 

I suppose even rich men want romance. Perhaps he’s waiting for love and suspects he’ll find it here, when in truth I have nothing sincere to offer him. The guilt that’s been coiled in my stomach since I first started courting Gale expands until I’m nauseous and heavy on my feet. 

I pass Gale my plate and excuse myself. I tell him I’m going to freshen up in the lady’s room, but really I just want to get away from him. What good is trying to ignore shame when it’s staring you right in the face? 

Of course, as soon as I leave Gale’s side, I run into Peeta. 

“Thank God I found you,” he says. “I don’t know anybody here and I was starting to go a little insane.” 

“You can’t make friends in a ballroom?” I tease. I haven’t seen him all night and my pulse quickens in his presence. There’s a twisting dread within me too since Peeta doesn’t know of Mrs. Hawthorne’s coming to meet me, or of my obligatory attachment to Gale for the night. Even though I once longed for it, I silently hope he doesn’t ask me to dance. 

He looks splendid in a dark tuxedo and white waistcoat. The suit isn’t velvet like Gale’s, but it’s clean, pressed, and only slightly threadbare. The coat accentuates his broad shoulders and slender hips and I flush when he catches me staring. He doesn’t call me out on it though and instead makes a curious expression, wrinkling his nose cutely and flashing a toothy grin as he nods towards a man wearing a fuzzy green top hat, the fluff making it look as if the fabric has grown mold. 

“You would want to be friends with Mr. Beeble?” 

I laugh loudly, incredulous. “That’s his name?”

“I'm not sure. I’ve just been making names up to pass the time. And I’ve been watching that lady over there-” he places a hand to my shoulder to direct my gaze and discreetly points towards an older woman with black hair that’s clearly been dyed to death. She’s standing by the buffet stuffing shrimp into her hand purse. Peeta’s voice is low and filled with glee. “She’s been going at it for three minutes. So far, I’ve counted thirty-five shrimp.” He waits a beat. “Thirty-six.” 

We try to stifle our laughter, but even so, I’m afraid she’ll hear us, so I tug on Peeta’s arm and lead him somewhere more private. I don’t want to be seen with him out in the open. 

We settle near the racks in the corner where people have been leaving their coats. Only a few guests mingle nearby, but they don’t pay us much attention. 

“So,” he stands against one of the racks and leans into me slightly, as if he’s about to tell me a secret. “I notice you haven’t had a dance yet.” 

My gleeful mood breaks. He seems to notice the shift in my energy because his cheeky expression falters and his ears turn pink. 

“Peeta, I can’t dance with you tonight.” I glance over my shoulder, checking to make sure Gale and his spiteful mother are out of sight. “I’m Mr. Hawthorne’s date,” I hiss into his ear. 

“Mr. Hawthorne can’t spare one dance?”

“I-” I glance around again. We’re so close we’re practically embracing. I hastily take a step back from Peeta and try to channel Effie’s stern tone, the one I can never seem to argue with. “It would be rude of me to accept you.” I bite my lip, realizing how harsh I sound. “Sorry,” I add as an afterthought.

He says he understands, but I feel a wall slowly building between us. Perhaps it had been there all along and I had been too naive to notice it. There are no more jokes as we stand awkwardly apart. 

“That’s a beautiful necklace.” He solemnly nods towards the gems dripping from my throat. “Is it from Mr. Hawthorne?” 

I nod. Once again, I feel as if Gale has somehow marked me. The extravagant necklace screams a clear message, as if Gale has announced loudly to the ballroom: _mine_. 

“It’s not really my style,” I remark. 

“I thought not. But even so, it suits you.” Something in his tone tells me he’s not just talking about the necklace, but the giver. I’m filled with bitter disappointment, until confusion over why I feel such a way replaces it. 

“Why don’t you ask Prim to dance? She’d love to have another partner, and Finnick’s a bit busy.” I gesture towards Finnick, who’s begun raiding the shellfish table at the buffet. I smile slightly when I watch him, searching in vain for the shrimp. 

“I think I will. It’d be a shame if I didn’t dance with at least one Everdeen girl tonight.” His expression is playful, but I sense something dark rising up in him. He struts off to inquire about Prim and as I watch him leave, my insides shrivel. His blonde curls disappear in the crowd and then I’m utterly alone. 

I sense that he’s angry. Not at me. I don’t think he particularly likes Gale but I don’t think he hates the man either. So who could he be mad at? 

I’m left to toy with the question but only come up with blanks. I snatch a much-wanted glass of champagne from a servant’s tray, taking a sip of the tart, dry liquid as I hover on the outskirts of the party. I mingle but never pick up a conversation or a new acquaintance. I desperately want Peeta back at my side, but he’s dancing with Prim. My heart beats painfully when I see him twirl her under his arm. 

I don’t like this feeling, of looking in from the outside, but it doesn’t last long. 

“How is it,” Finnick starts, popping up out of nowhere. “that you’ve managed to look glum at one of the happiest of all occasions?”

“You mistake my expression, sir. This is my happy face.” I force myself to smile sweetly as I reach out and clink my nearly full glass against his empty one.

“You can't fool me, Katniss. I've seen you at the dinner table.” 

When I let out a laugh I feel the necklace weigh me down. “It just so happens that dinner cheers me up more than a party. Though you should enjoy this while you can, Finnick. It's the only wedding you'll ever have.” 

“But surely, not the last one I’ll attend this season.” He winks as he walks away, and I'm left staring stupidly at his retreating figure. Of course, he’s hinting at me and Gale, and if Finnick, one of Gale’s closest friends can joke about it, the suspected engagement is closing in. The thought makes me uneasy, rather than excited, as was probably Finnick’s intention. 

I spot Gale across the ballroom, looking handsome and healthy next to such portly Capitol men. He's been so kind to me, so why can't I seem to stir up deeper feelings for him? Is there something wrong with me? Don’t I owe him for all he’s offered? The library, the hunting, the visits to his manor. This damn necklace that costs a small fortune and that he so generously bestowed upon me without a second thought. He’s been nothing but obliging, treating me to the best money can offer. Gale’s a respectable man, and I, however unlikely, have somehow rooted myself in his heart. He’s a true gentleman. A friend. But is that all I’ll ever feel for him? Friendship?

Guilt claws its way up my throat. 

How horrible I’m being to him, leading him on just to realize my own romantic indifference. I’m reminded of Marianne Cartwright, the girl I internally berate for flinging her attentions towards men with money. Aren’t I doing the exact same thing? Gale insisted his mother liked me, but I have a feeling she saw right through my thinly veiled lust for protection. Perhaps her hatred is deserved. I should be ashamed of myself. 

But isn’t that the point of my struggle? Marriage is inevitable, I know that. Otherwise, how do I protect Prim? But wasn’t love something I wanted to avoid? Because love just leads to pain. I could be content with a loveless marriage. If that’s what it takes. 

For Primrose.

But then what of Peeta? During the long days, my head is always so full of him, and I can't seem to get him out of my dreams either. But again! My status is so above his. In Panem, bakers don’t marry into the upper rings of society. It’s just not done. But it’s not like I’ve ever truly cared about notions of propriety or those outdated rules. Without Haymitch’s intervention, I would still be the lowly daughter of a wheat farmer. Maybe because of that, we can be the exception. Maybe...

I catch myself, fear freezing my limbs and flooding my veins like ice water. 

Do I want to marry Peeta? All my life I’ve closed myself off from the possibility of marrying for love. Marriage is the only path I have, but love was never in the cards for me. Love dies out. Every time. The impermanence of love is the very reason I try to avoid it. That, and I’m scared. I’m scared of any love that’s true, but it dawns on me, as I stare vacantly into a sea of swirling bodies, that I’m even more terrified of living without it. 

I feel tears prick at my eyes as I push past people, not bothering to apologize when I nearly knock someone over. I sprint to the gardens, my hem whipping about my ankles. The night air smells bitterly of frost and pierces through my gown like an icy needle. I’ve left my coat in the ballroom and within seconds I begin to shiver, but even so, I don’t go back inside. I pace erratically, muttering to myself like a lunatic, and pinch the soft flesh of my palm until I draw blood. 

“What are you doing?” 

It’s Peeta. The last time I saw him he was dancing with Prim, but he’s found me in the shadows, huddled near the skeleton of a bush that’s been trimmed to look like a bear. When I hear his voice my heart violently throws itself up against my ribcage, like a bird trying to break free. I viciously hold it back. 

“I saw you run out here. Is everything ok?” His eyes are questioning, the fog of his breath crystallizing in the cold. His muted anger from before is gone, replaced by worry. 

“I just needed some fresh air,” I say. My voice is raspy, as if I’ve tried to inhale smoke. When he notices I’m shivering, he slips out of his coat and places it on my shoulders. The fabric is saturated with his body heat and smells like him, that familiar combination of cinnamon, lard soap, and what I can only describe as boy musk. A thrumming warmth envelops me, his simple gesture leaving me infinitely more comforted than I had been. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks softly. 

I open my mouth, unsure what will spill out, but Peeta’s steady presence seems to have brought me clarity. Either that or the biting cold is focusing my thoughts. I suddenly realize what’s been bothering me in regards to Finnick.

“I’ve been watching Mr. and Mrs. Odair all night. Really all month,” I say into the darkness. “And they’re so happy together. They truly love each other.” He nods but doesn’t say anything. He knows I’m not finished. “And I just...well I don’t know...” I feel hot tears slide down my cheeks and my voice comes out strangled and small. “I guess I’m jealous of them. Of what they have. I want that too, but nothing ever lasts, so in the end, what’s the point? I’ll just get hurt.” 

Isn’t that a universal truth? Everything ends. Seasons. Childhood. My father’s life. My mother’s love. And eventually, death takes us all. What’s the point of holding onto people when they’ll just leave you? If you close yourself off, you spare yourself the sorrow. 

His words are quiet, contemplative, and he gently turns his palms out towards me when he says, “Life would be meaningless without love. Think of your sister.” 

I picture Prim in her brand new dress, flitting about the ballroom like a fairy. I remember her when she was a toddler, chubby and loud but oh, so sweet. My innocent Primrose. My heart is full of her. And one day, when we sisters are separated by death, I just hope it’s me that goes first. For in a world without me, she could move on, but a life without her would be unbearable. 

All these thoughts of death leave me hollow, as if someone had taken a spoon to my very soul and scraped away at it until I was empty. I’m sick of feeling so lost and confused. I want to feel something good. 

I step towards him, our chests are nearly touching. 

I'm screaming at myself to stop. There are lines that shouldn't be crossed. Decisions with outcomes that should be carefully weighed. But I'm so close. So close to fulfilling this deep desire of mine that I let all my doubts die. 

He doesn’t back away as I slowly raise my lips to his. 


	12. The Midnight Garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secret garden shenanigans, baby

The kiss is timid and gentle and achingly slow. Peeta’s mouth is as soft as a flower petal and he sharply inhales through his nose when I glide my tongue over his bottom lip. As I pull away I catch a glimpse of his face, illuminated by the moon, and my breath hitches. His expression is pained. 

“Katniss,” he sighs, moistening his lips nervously. “I don’t want to take advantage of you. I know you’re...unsure...of things right now, but I’ve been meaning to tell you that-”

Before he can ruin the moment, I kiss him again. Harder. 

He lets out a quiet moan. The sound comes from somewhere deep and primal within him and causes a jolt to resonate through my body, shaking me from core to fingertips. His hesitancy melts away as he responds, parting his lips to taste mine. I smile against him when he takes control, wrapping his strong, protective arms around me, pulling the planes of my body flush against his. I gladly let him hold me, content with riding the undulating waves of adrenaline and happiness that threaten to throw me overboard. There’s fear buried here too. Fear that someone will discover us, but the forbiddenness of the kiss only adds to the thrill of it all. For once, I let my emotions command me, rather than fight them off. 

Peeta reaches to tenderly grasp my neck, twining his fingers into the wispy hairs at my nape as he angles our lips to fit better against one another. My hand is trapped between us, splayed over his heart as he presses against me, pulling me closer and closer and closer until we practically overlap. Surely he can feel every thundering beat of my pulse under his palms. 

I guide my hands up the hard expanse of his chest and to his shoulders. They’re taut and muscular. I slide the pads of my fingertips underneath his pressed collar. He shivers when they catch on raised scar tissue but I don’t let go. Instead, I stroke the marred skin with touches that promise healing and happier tomorrows. I open myself to him, the kiss deepening when he presses his warm tongue into my mouth. He tastes of wedding cake and champagne. 

I’m dizzy and breathless when we come up for air, having practically draped my body against his to keep myself upright. I feel as flimsy as a strip of silk in a storm. The muted music of the party floats out across the frosted garden and I know there’s no going back. At least, not yet. Not while I still have him here. I look up and meet his eyes. 

His pupils are blown out.

Without a word, I pull Peeta further into the garden, down a stone staircase, and past a row of what once were manicured trees. All that's left now are their trunks and flimsy branches, exposed like bones to the bitter air. There’s a lowered circle with a dried-out fountain at its center, concealed by a set of curved stone walls. 

Once the house is out of sight, Peeta pulls me in again, pressing me up against the wall and wedging his trouser clad thigh between my legs to keep me anchored. The solid weight of his body holds me in place, but I don't feel trapped. Rather, I feel shielded, as if Peeta means to protect me. He leaves wet, open-mouthed kisses blazing across the soft flesh of my neck where my pulse thrums and then trailing hotly across my jaw. I grow hungrier for him with every passing second, until finally, finally, finally, Peeta caves, and with another throaty moan, meets my lips again. 

His kisses are desperate. Lingering. They smolder like coals on a hearth. Warm but with an unexpected heat behind them. He kisses me like he wants to give me the world, or perhaps take it for himself. I would gladly let him. I would gladly give myself up. 

The chill of the stone wall slowly soaks through Peeta’s jacket as I cling to the fabric of his dress shirt. I feel the muscles of his chest contracting with every hurried breath he takes in. It’s like we’re racing, trying to see which of us can devour the other first.

The kiss slows as he nips at my bottom lip with his teeth, sending dizzying waves of pleasure through my body, and then he pulls away. I whimper in disappointment. Without the pressure of his lips, I feel as if my oxygen supply has been cut off, or as if he's taken a knife and carved out a piece of my chest, leaving me open, raw, and wanting. His eyes are feverishly bright, his chest heaving, and his pink lips swollen. I’m sure I mirror him. 

Kissing Peeta is ecstasy, but I need more. Mere kissing isn’t enough. 

We’re not married. We can never marry, but I need him to fill the role of a loving husband, just this once. I fear if I don’t have this now, I never will. 

Peeta gently caresses my cheek. The man who had so forcefully wrested control of the kiss from me has vanished, and here, before me, stands the baker’s boy. His smile is timid, so full of sweetness and sincerity and disbelief, all tumbling across his face like streams of sunlight chasing clouds away on a rainy spring day. 

I know if I don’t get a hold of myself soon, I’m going to start ripping his clothes off. 

Peeta rests his forehead against mine, his eyelids fluttering closed. He’s flushed and utterly spent. It seems kissing me has drained him of all his energy. 

“What are we doing?” he sighs. His voice is deliciously husky. 

“Kiss me again,” I beg, sounding desperate and needy but I don't care. I perch up on my tiptoes, trying to taste those decadently sweet lips once more, but he’s in a teasing mood and raises his head out of reach to gaze at me. His curls shine as white as snow in the moonlight, his eyes gleam icy blue. Somehow, this pale winter boy has ignited a raging fire within me, one I’m no longer trying to smother. 

Why haven't we done this before? We’ve spent so many hours, sitting by the river or on the hillside, talking when we could have been kissing. Here's my chance to make up for all that lost time. 

He regards me tenderly, his expression only faltering when his eyes land on the necklace at my throat. I watch him struggle to swallow and I want to tell him not to worry, that the necklace means nothing, but we both know that isn’t true. 

“We should get back, before someone notices you’re missing.” It’s unspoken, but I hear Gale’s name behind Peeta’s words. As he pulls away, I panic and snatch at his hand. 

I won't let him dwell on this. Gale has no place here when we’re together. 

With stuttering breath and weakened knees, I guide Peeta’s broad hand to my breast. My nipple is peaked and hard through the fabric of my gown as I let his palm rest upon it. He cradles the springy flesh and squeezes me firmly through his fingers, just once. The pressure sends a shockwave through my body that swirls and settles tightly between my legs. I rub my thighs together to try and alleviate some of the pressure, but it’s not enough.  
  
A dark, lustful intensity sweeps over his handsome features as I urge him on with hooded eyes. 

For so long, I've been scared to explore within myself, afraid of the pain, but with Peeta, I feel perfectly safe. Perhaps it's because deep down, I believe he could never truly hurt me.

I don’t care about the consequences. I don’t care to save my purity for Gale. I need Peeta inside of me. 

Now.

Understanding dawns on Peeta. He freezes and I sense a touch of hesitation take root. He’s about ready to pounce, but perhaps he needs one more nudge. 

I slip my hand into his trousers, between his legs.

The reaction is almost instantaneous, but it’s not the reaction I wanted. 

Peeta jerks away from me so forcefully his belt buckle scrapes against my skin, leaving a throbbing, red welt. Every place his body once pressed is left achingly cold. In my surprise, I reach out towards him, but his face twists as he raises his hands to ward me off. 

“Katniss, _we can’t,_ ” he hisses. He blinks his eyes and stumbles back a few more steps, as if waking from a trance. His face is no longer lustful, rather he watches me with a mixture of deep revulsion and fear, but it’s clear by the growing bulge in his pants that somewhere, deep down, he still wants me. I try stepping towards him again, but he withdraws. The space he makes between us feels final. 

Hot, choking shame floods through me. It stoppers my voice and presses tears into my eyes. My heart withers painfully until my once singing pulse is replaced by a throbbing, heavy beat. 

_Oh, God._ My tears spillover. _I’ve ruined everything._

“What were you thinking? Someone could see us!” He’s trying not to raise his voice, but he’s failing. I’ve never seen him this upset before. I don't really see the problem. Someone could have seen us kissing but he hadn't backed down from that. “We can’t _be together_ , Katniss. You’re not thinking straight and I-” He chokes, a look of such despair and regret and anguish etched across every facet of his face that I have to battle within myself to not reach out again and comfort him. 

And perhaps it’s for the best because his next words, quiet as they are, succeed in driving the final wedge between us. 

“Katniss,” he exhales. “I’m engaged.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha, sorry


	13. The Shoemaker's Daughter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angst and pining but like, on a horse

By this time of early winter, the tall grasses of the fields have grown pale and brittle. It’s as if the hills whisper secrets with every stiff breeze, and the clouds hang over Whitley, dark and angry, bottling up whatever storms they plan on unleashing upon us for later. It’s not quite cold enough for snow yet, but on my tightly bundled walks through the valley, I pray for a blizzard. Anything that will break up this gray, monotonous land into something white and wild will do. 

There’s to be a festival in Whitley to celebrate the end of the harvest season and the coming of Christmas. Red banners and wreaths dotted with holly berries have been strung up in doorways and on window panes. I watch Marianne Cartwright quickly making her way under one such banner across the square. 

I want to strangle her. I want to be her. I can't tell which of the conflicting urges is strongest. 

I remember my first visit to Templeton and the conversation I had with Finnick. Back then I hadn’t thought much of it, but now his words haunt me, playing over and over in my head like the shrieking caw of a crow in early morning. 

_Engaged._

_A good man from Whitley._

“Katniss?” Madge waves a hand in front of my face to get my attention. We sit at a table by the front window of Whitley’s classiest parlor, munching on finger sandwiches and biscuits and trying not to burn our tongues on scalding cups of peppermint tea. I take a breath through my nose and lift a sandwich to my mouth. It’s cucumber and dill on white bread, but I only taste dust. 

“You didn’t think to mention that he was engaged?”

She scoffs bitterly and breaks a biscuit in half. “We haven’t talked in months.” 

“You could have warned me at the ball. Or sent me a letter,” I argue. 

“Look, Katniss.” She throws the biscuit down without so much as a nibble and sets me with a pointed look. She’s angry with me, and I understand why. I’m the worst kind of friend. If I was in her shoes I would loathe me. “It was obvious you had a crush on him. You’re not very discrete. Anyway, that’s all I thought it was. A crush. They usually don’t last long and it’s not like anything was going to happen since he’s been promised to Marianne since they were babies. It’s common knowledge around town.” My bottom lip quivers. I try to hide it behind my teacup but Madge sees and her eyes soften. “You really didn’t know?”

“You think I’d continue to see him if I did?”

“I think you would have, Katniss. You’re the type to hold on to people, even when it hurts.” Her words remind me of my mother, clinging to my father so desperately she lost her grip on us. Perhaps I’ve inherited her faults, only caring for my obsessions and ignoring the rest, but I can’t believe I had gone so far as to try to sleep with Peeta. We’re friends, or we were, and I had abused his trust. What horrible things he must think of me now. 

Even if he could choose a bride, would he have chosen me? He slips so easily into lies, perhaps it had all been some sick joke. Seduce the clueless rich girl and then leave once you have her wrapped around your finger. Perhaps it was to test his skills before he got hitched and would have to retire them forever. He wooed me because he could. I was a game to him. 

I feel used, even though technically, I’m the one who kissed Peeta first. 

My stomach knots painfully and I push my plate aside. I’m being horribly unfair. Peeta would never do that. Hadn’t he tried to tell me? Once by the river and then right before I had kissed him in the garden. He had been trying to warn me. I had just refused to listen.

I don’t know what upsets me more, the fact that sweet, romantic Peeta will never have the power to choose a bride for himself, or that this is just a brutal reminder that I can never have him. Not even behind closed doors. He’s too honorable for that, and yet, I had tried to corrupt him anyway. It was me who had reached into his pants. It was me that had forced my lust upon him. He had enough self-control to stop me. I should be thanking him, not condemning him. He protected me from myself. 

Marianne doesn’t deserve him, but I look upon my actions and realize, neither do I. 

I vacantly trace the rim of my cup with my pointer finger. Peeta had been a year old when Marianne was born, and for future security, their parents had agreed when Marianne turned sixteen, the two would wed. I can only imagine his mother is behind all this. Peeta would gain a wife and a small but substantial dowry, and Marianne would gain a home and financial stability away from her father. 

His brothers hadn’t had arranged marriages. Only him. It seems Peeta’s future happiness has been reduced to a business deal. His parents had even signed official legal documents, holding both families accountable for upholding the proposed union. In simpler terms: no backing out. 

The baker’s boy and the shoemaker’s daughter. Village sweethearts. A perfect match. And Marianne turns sixteen next month. 

Bile rises in my throat. 

Madge hasn’t completely forgiven me for snubbing her, but she takes my hand across the table and gives a comforting squeeze. I haven’t told her about the passionate kisses with Peeta in the garden. That’s my secret, one I’ll never share now, though I think Gale suspects something happened that night. 

After Peeta’s confession and the silent dawning of betrayal that followed, I had rushed back inside still wearing his tuxedo coat. Upon Gale pointing it out, I ripped the thing off, leaving it on the rack for him to retrieve later. He never came back inside and I knew he remained out in the garden, freezing with just his dress shirt on, but the idea of going to face him after displaying my most desperate desires and having him throw them back in my face made me physically nauseous. Gale hadn’t asked any questions about the coat, but for the remainder of the night, he never once let me out of his sight. 

“I’m such a fool, Madge,” I whisper. There’s no one else here in the tea shop with us, except for Mr. Reed, the owner, who’s gone into the back, but I’m still paranoid that if I speak any louder the walls will hear me. 

“I know he isn’t your first choice, but you still have Mr. Hawthorne,” she reminds me. “Not all is lost.” 

“But I don’t love him.” 

“You think Marianne loves Peeta? That girl only loves one thing: money. And that's something Peeta doesn't have much of. She’ll be miserable.” 

“They'll _both_ be miserable,” I growl. Who cares if Marianne can’t afford silk ribbons or new dresses? I can only think of poor Peeta and his life with a woman who’ll never think his offerings good enough. 

Madge’s hard edges soften as she watches me wilt across the table. “Not many can afford love, Katniss. But I’m sure your affections for Mr. Hawthorne will grow.” She bites her lip. “With time.” 

My feelings for Gale aren't love. I know this, but with Peeta out of my grasp, what do I have left? Maybe I can learn to love Gale. Maybe it will take marriage to ignite a quiet spark into passionate flames. 

Something within me sours when I recognize the words, not as my own, but as Effie’s. I could spend years with Gale and never experience an inkling of the affections I hold for Peeta, but I don’t tell Madge this, not wanting her to worry about me. For her sake, I hold my tongue. 

* * *

I don’t go inside when I return to Victor Greene. All that waits for me there are concerned looks from the servants and Prim offering to get me tea or medicine or a bite to eat. She thinks the bruises under my eyes and the new paleness in my complexion means I’m sick, but really I just haven’t been sleeping. I won’t tell her anything about Peeta since I’d rather she not know, so to avoid her kindness, I walk straight into the stables to find Nightlock. She’s munching on fresh feed and swishing her tail happily in her pen. 

“Hey, girl,” I rub her black snout as she whuffles softly. I reach into my pocket and take out a few sugar cubes I had lifted from the teashop, allowing her to eat them eagerly out of my palm. I smile when her pink lips tickle my skin. 

She’s a beautiful creature, all sinewy muscle and silky black mane. I don’t usually take her on rides when it’s cold, but there’s a drive within me today, urging me to do _something_ besides sit around and mope. I’ve spent the last few nights crying until the bones in my face ache. Now it seems, I’m all dried out. 

Once I’ve saddled her up, I retrieve my bow and a sheath of feathered arrows. I undo my braid and swing up onto Nightlock’s back. Riding is more fun when I can feel my hair streaming out behind me, and perhaps while I’m out I can shoot something for dinner. I dig my heels into her side and we take off, a jet black streak across the watery gray countryside. The constant pounding of her hooves on hard dirt is meditative and I allow my head to empty. We pass over rounded hilltops and stretches of barren forest, through meadows of dry grasses and over dirt roads. All I can feel is the loping bounds of her stride and the violent roaring of wind rushing past my ears. I’m so powerful on a horse, viewing the world from a slightly higher vantage point. What speed these creatures possess and what a thrill it is to leap over fences and streams. With each jump, I sense an uplifting rush of momentum that leaves my heart beating like a drum and my limbs coursing with adrenaline. My long hair and skirts flare out behind me in the furious winds. I can almost imagine I’m on a ship, sailing far, far away. What I wouldn’t give to possess a fraction of the freedom a sailor must feel on the open sea. 

The clouds stretch out before me, wheeling above in thick, swirling clusters. It's surreal how close they look, as if when I reach out, I could grab a dense fistful. But of course, that’s impossible. They're so infinitely out of reach. The rounded expanse of sky leaves me dizzy, like I was peering downwards into oblivion instead of up. I pull myself back to earth.

The bracing air summons tears that sting at the corners of my eyes as I slow Nightlock into a trot and guide us to the river, allowing her to take a deep drink from the churning waters. While I’m combing my fingers through a knot in her mane and keeping an eye out for game, I spot him. I’m so startled that I jerk on the reins, causing Nightlock to huff in annoyance since she hasn’t finished drinking. 

Peeta sits on the opposite shore atop our usual rock and watches me silently. It’s the first time we’ve seen each other since the garden. I look wild and crazed, with windblown hair down past my waist and a dirt flecked coat, so different from the preened and polished appearance I had displayed at the wedding. I’m riding astride, not side-saddle, as a proper lady should. And I’m armed. 

He appears small from this far away, sitting alone in a space that usually fits two. He doesn’t seem startled, as I probably do. Instead, he seems statue-like, frozen in time. He watches me closely, not moving to wave me down but simply holding me in his eyes. Perhaps he came here thinking I would eventually show up, and as usual, he was right. His cheeks are ruddy and his nose is bright red. Clearly, he’s been waiting a long time. 

I return his gaze with a stare of my own, afraid that if I look away, he’ll have won somehow, even though there’s no winning, for either of us. We’re playing a losing game with one another, and it’s best to get out as soon as possible before the losses are too great. 

I don’t look at him again as Nightlock and I clop away, but I feel his gaze follow me until I’ve disappeared past a line of trees. He lets me go, yet I feel his eyes watching me, burning as blue as Hell’s fire behind my closed lids when I burrow deep under my covers that night. He’s intertwined himself into the very fabric of my soul, and when I blow out the candles, there he shines, brighter than ever. The following hours are spent tossing and turning as I desperately try to claw at the edges of where Peeta ends and I start. It’s impossible though as I realize, horrified, that the lines have blurred. 

He is everywhere, except within my arms. 

Later, when a thin haze of sleep has somehow overtaken me, I dream of pregnancy. My body swells to cradle a tiny, golden-haired child who kicks and flutters inside of me. When I wake, empty and alone, it feels as if she has been forcibly ripped from my womb. 

Once again, I find myself weeping for what I can’t have.


	14. The Confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I love how at the beginning of these chapters AO3 is like: summary?? And I’m like: more angst??

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why did I break my own heart writing this? Damn

With Finnick and Annie away on their honeymoon, then off to live at their estate by the sea, and Johanna departed back to Town for the upcoming holidays, unsure of when she’ll return, I find myself wandering about Templeton rather aimlessly. Without my friend’s laughter filling the rooms and drawing me into conversations, I feel like a ghost come to haunt the halls. The ballroom is barren once again, empty of the joy and light it housed during the wedding, and only a few fireplaces have been lit, since the servants assume I’ll stay within the library or the sitting room. A cold hearth means no one knows of my wanderings, which is fine by me. It’s time I explored this great house on my own. If I’m to be the mistress of such a fine manor, shouldn’t I know all the ins and outs?

I spend a day counting the rooms, then the windows, then the marble tiles in the front hall, making sure to step on each one as I go. The house is full of small, secret doors that lead to dusty alcoves, laundry chutes that I could slide down if I was crazy enough to, locked drawers that jingle with hidden treasures when I jostle their knobs, dressers large enough to curl up in and take a nap, and rickety servants staircases that squeak loudly, even under my hunter’s tread.

Gale is busy, spending increasing amounts of time in his office suite doing Lord knows what. I don't know much about business, preferring adventure and history, but Gale has a knack for numbers and a mining empire to run. I just have quiet days to occupy.

I try playing piano, but without Annie there to break up my clumsy smashing of keys with her delicate runs, it’s no fun. I’m just sat sitting stupidly in a room, an echo chamber that reverberates my lack of talent back into my own ears. You can’t play cards alone and I don’t feel like hunting. I was never one for knitting or needlepoint. At least, not as a pastime. I would read but I haven’t been able to sit still recently, feeling I’d rather get up and walkabout. I spend the days all wound up, like a clockwork doll who can’t rest. It’s a quiet sort of agony.

On many occasions, I awaken from shallow sleep and lucid dreams. Dreams of a farmer’s cottage and the strumming of a guitar and the sound of a clear voice, just like my father’s. The visions are strangely lilted, as all dreams are, yet so compelling that for a peaceful moment, I’m unable to recall what’s real and what’s not, until the stupor is broken by the loud clanging of the breakfast bell and I’m dragged back to reality. 

That is how I spend the weeks leading up to Christmas, until it’s practically on our doorstep. I’ve ordered gifts for Prim and Haymitch and Madge and even for Effie, who I think deserves something nice for putting up with me, as well as for having the skills to weave what little wifely qualities I have into a successful courtship. I almost buy Peeta a gift, real paints, until I remember that we haven’t talked in weeks and that by buying him such an expensive gift would be like throwing my wealth in his face. 

I haven’t thought about him, not often at least, because when he rises up within me, a memory of dappled shade under a willow tree or words carefully carved on a leaf or the stroking of a braid in the dead of night, I stand and busy myself until there’s only the faint outline of his presence pressing at the back of my mind. He is always there though, anchored in depths within myself even I won’t explore, but I can drown him out if I try hard enough. 

It’s not until a box is delivered to me at lunchtime, wrapped in fraying twine, that I allow myself to picture his face. Just as I thought it would, my heart aches. 

Inside are a dozen cheese buns, all golden-crusted and melty. There’s a small note too, written in his neat handwriting.

_We need to talk. You know where to find me._

I quickly hide the note in my pocket before Prim can see, and pass the buns to Haymitch, who happily stuffs one into his mouth. I elect to ignore Peeta, still bitter over him hiding the truth from me, but I take the note back out that night. He wrote it on old newspaper. It’s yellow with age, wrinkled at the corners, and I’m quietly reminded of that bright fall day when we had our picnic on the hillside. 

_It’s all bleached newspapers and berry juice, not even worthy of a frame._

He had looked so sheepish, flashing me a smile with just the right amount of shyness that my insides had liquefied. He was talking of his paintings, works I had never gotten to see. There’s so much unsaid between us. I feel I at least owe our friendship closure. 

With a racing heart, I go to find him on the hill the next day. As I dismount Nightlock and tie her to a tree, I look his way. He’s wearing the scarf, the one that matches his eyes, but no hat. His golden curls gleam against the shadowy landscape and blow about in the breeze. He sits with his arms around his knees, clasping his wrist with a pale hand. I cautiously approach him. 

He doesn’t bother to address me, or even look at me, but I sit by him anyway and together we gaze out over the dying valley. It’s many minutes before I speak.

“Have you been coming here every day hoping I’d show up?”

“Yes,” he admits. “For weeks. And you never did so I thought I’d send you those cheese buns.”

“Well, I’m here. So...congratulations on your engagement.” The words are celebratory, the tone brittle. The corners of Peeta’s mouth quirk upwards, but the smile is fleeting and vanishes as quickly as it had come. 

“You don’t have to pretend, Katniss. Not with me.” 

A white-hot rage surges through me, eating away at the borders of my being and causing my head to rush. I could say the same to him, pretending everything was well and fine, kissing me with such passion in the garden when he had been engaged the entire time. I want to yell at him. Why didn’t he tell me? What did he think he’d gain by hiding his engagement, other than dealing me a deathblow in my most vulnerable moments? I had begged for him, so desperately needing him to rip away my gown and take me up against that stone wall. I wanted him, body and soul, and he had so cruelly denied me that chance, even when everything he had promised pointed towards him wanting the same thing. His promises weren’t given in words, but in smiles and gentle touches and baked goods and kisses placed lightly into palms. I have every right to be furious. 

Instead, I deflate. Where there had been the flaring of fire, I only carry ash. I think we’ve both hurt each other enough. Me, lording Gale’s affections over him, and he, hiding Marianne. We both bleed the same. There’s no point in being spiteful, trying to reopen his wounds when that would just lead to reopening mine. He is a part of me now, and whatever I unleash upon him, I unleash upon myself tenfold. The thought of Peeta hurting reminds me of the last time we had been together on this hill.

“Why did your mother beat you?” I whisper. I had always wondered but never felt like it was my place to ask. He clenches his jaw so tightly I can see the muscles in his neck bulge. I know I won’t like the answer. 

Peeta still hasn’t looked at me. Instead, he continues staring off into the distance and I watch his side profile, somehow sharp and soft all at once. To me, he seems a man of many contradictions. Timid, yet strong. Affectionate, yet withholding. Honest, yet in possession of secrets. 

If only I had more time to figure him out. 

When he does eventually speak his voice is dull, so empty of the humor that I’ve grown used to hearing in him. 

“I asked my mother to postpone the wedding. When she said no I tried pleading with her, but she pulled the poker out of the fire and…” He chuckles coldly. “Well, you know the rest.” 

So he had resisted. Peeta’s not one to roll with the punches, but he's not one to dole them out either, and in the end, he had lost. It’s a curious thing though, why only resist now if he had known about the arrangement his whole life? The question leaps off of my tongue. 

He turns to me, finally meeting my eyes. Being this close to him once again, seeing the curve of his jaw, the way his mouth charmingly forms words, the slope of his brow furrowed over those clear eyes, the ones that haunt my dreams, has me holding my breath. His gaze rests on my lips. He’s thinking of the kisses. I’m thinking of them too and I find myself instinctually leaning into him, straining to catch his words. 

“You know why,” he whispers. 

I do and I don’t, afraid that if he never says it out loud, I will never know for sure. He searches my face and must find something there to spur him on because he lets out a shaky exhale and continues. 

“I adore you, Katniss Everdeen,” he breathes. I see something of relief flood his body, as if keeping the words inside had stiffened his joints and rusted away at his bones. As he speaks, a low urgency seeps into his voice. “I love you so much sometimes I think it will kill me.” 

I freeze, unsure how to respond. I want to be happy, incandescently happy, but how can I when his confession will only lead me to ruin? We have no future together. Our destinies have been sold off to others. My thoughts are so muddled, my eyes stinging with tears, that I barely compose a response. 

“You don't mean that.”

“I do.”

I feel my lip trembling and I have to bite down on it. The urge to reach out and touch him is tremendous, but I hold myself back. 

Instead, it’s him who reaches out. He presses his palm against my own, calluses on calluses, and winds his fingers between mine. Our skin, cream and olive, glow against one another. I want to stay here, trapped in the heat of his hand, but as the seconds stretch on I can only picture Marianne, who’s probably already picked out her wedding dress. I unwind our fingers. 

“It doesn't change anything.” 

“It doesn't?” His eyes are pleading, begging me to say it back, to tell him I love him too. But I can’t bring myself to do it. I am so selfish, needing to hear the words from him but unable to say them in return. 

“You’re angry with me.” His face crumples. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to burden you with that-”

“No,” I lean forward and cradle my head in my hands. “I’m not angry with you, Peeta. I’m angry with myself.” 

Didn’t I swear to never feel so deeply for another that I’d fall apart? But somehow, I allowed Peeta to creep up on me. I should have seen the signs. I should have stopped myself from meeting with him to avoid all this. I had always equated marriage to a death sentence, not because I thought myself unable to love a man, but because I was afraid of how strongly I would once I found him. And I have found him. Only to find that, just as I had predicted, I’m going to lose him. 

I bitterly think of my mother. I’ve done everything I could to avoid her mistakes, and yet here I am, on the brink of collapse at the mere thought of Peeta kissing another. Marrying another. Bedding another. 

He says he loves me now, but in the coming years, as time corrodes everything good and pure and youthful, his love for me will fade. He will have Marianne and their children to look after. There will be no room left for me, even in a heart as big as his. 

As much as I resent her for it, I understand what my mother must have suffered. Deeply caring for someone and not being with them. It's crippling. It's as if my heart only beats half the time it's supposed to, and every in-between is a suffocating eternity. 

I realize I’m shaking. With what, I don’t know. Rage? Jealousy? Sorrow? They’re all roaring equal and ugly inside of me. 

Peeta chews on his lower lip. 

“You have every right to hate me.” 

I want to laugh but he's not joking. How could I hate him? The thought is so ridiculous. As I see it now, Peeta didn’t do anything wrong. He could never have purposefully led me on or set me up for disappointment because deep down I knew we’d never end up together anyway. At least, not in the ultimate, binding way I want him. 

If anyone is to blame, it’s me. It’s my fault for allowing my feelings to get out of hand. It’s my fault for hoping, even in those uncontrollable dreams of kisses and wedding beds and children. Especially the children, something I've never truly wanted before. 

“I could never hate you.” 

“I deserve it.”

“No, you don’t. I kissed you first, remember?” I smile at him, my first in a long time, and the tension shatters. We both have to laugh. The alternative is to cry and I’ve done too much of that recently. 

Peeta has planted something within me, something I’ve hidden away from the world ever since he threw me the bread. How foolish that I hadn’t seen it before. 

My affections for him are like a flower bud in early spring, tightly bound for so long, but then violently awakened, blooming and bursting forth from my very being. But every flower has its thorns, and I’m bleeding from the inside out. 

I’m so drained from trying to wrestle with my emotions that there’s no longer any foothold for regret in me. My resolve crumbles and I admit to myself what I should have known for a long time now. 

_I love him._

Fate has made an utter fool of me, but I’m past the point of caring.

_I love him. I love him. I love him. And he loves me._

But there’s nothing we can do about it. 

Nothing at all. 

So when Gale calls upon me at Victor Greene the next morning and gets down on one knee, I accept him.


	15. The Blizzard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More angst

Gale forbids me from hunting. He says it's because he doesn't want me to catch a cold, but it sounds more like an order than a suggestion. When I had first mentioned I wanted to go out he had seemed angry, though I’m puzzled as to why. We’ve hunted together before and he was always supportive about it. That was before our courtship though and perhaps now that we’re to be husband and wife, his opinions of my pass-times have changed. I go along with it, staying indoors with him and reading by the fire while he balances checkbooks. I don’t want to risk angering him with a refusal, so I watch him silently from my perch, not daring to speak lest I incite his temper again.

His office suite is dark compared with the rest of the house. The walls are thick wood paneling, the curtains deep purple velvet. He’s decorated the room with expensive knick-knacks collected from his personal travels or that he had commissioned from overseas. Crystal glass sculptures of horses, a carved marble eagle, empty ebony vases streaked with a singular vein of white, the stuffed head of a beast with large, curved fangs over the mantel, a number of richly woven tapestries depicting volcanoes and foreign lands, curious figurines of chiseled gemstone that I’m not allowed to touch, and painted masks on the wall. Their empty eye sockets seem to follow me when I shift in my chair. There’s a large, imposing desk filled with papers, a wide fireplace, and a bar near the window which Gale stands at now, pouring himself a drink and neglecting to offer me one since ladies don’t drink liquor. He swirls the amber liquid in a cut crystal glass and sits down heavily in the armchair next to mine. The acrid scent of spirits fills the air.

“So,” he says, taking a thoughtful sip. “You want to be married in spring?” 

I nod from behind my book. He laughs lowly and folds one leg over the other. 

“I don’t know if I can wait that long.” He does it again. Flashes that slow gaze that climbs the silhouette of my body, lingering on the swell of my hips and the exposed skin of my collarbones. I’m wearing a fairly conservative dress of emerald silk with long sleeves and a long hem, but he still manages to make me feel uneasy, as if I’m undressing before him. There are questions in his eyes. Questions about what I look like under all those layers. 

I wish he wouldn’t do that. The expectant press of his gaze makes my skin crawl.

“We can marry after the snow melts,” I say. “It won’t be long at all.” 

He arches a brow and glances out the window over the grounds. From this room, we have a clear view of the reflection pool and the front lawn. What was once so verdant and lush now looks deadened and frosty, and we have yet to encounter our first snowfall. 

“I don’t see why we can’t marry sooner, but if it’s what you want-”

“It is,” I interject. His expression darkens at my interruption and I hold my breath for a reprimand. Instead, the corners of his lips perk up, though only slightly. 

“Then what my lady wants, she shall receive.” He rises from the chair, his glass now empty and forgotten on the side table. He leans over me, placing his hands on the quilted leather armrests and trapping me beneath him. He moves to kiss my forehead as I close my eyes. 

To outsiders, they would think I’m savoring the brush of his lips on my brow, but really, I close my eyes so I can hide my discomfort. The spot where his lips press tingles uncomfortably. 

“Any other demands, my dear?” 

“Nothing drastic, just…” I don’t know how to explain exactly, the feeling I’ve always pictured my wedding day to have. The serenity I wanted, the small guest list, the flowers braided into my hair, the moss beneath my bare feet. Even though we’re to marry, to share a life and a bed at night, this part of myself is too intimate to reveal to him. I wonder if this will be my life from now on. Hiding away the pieces of myself I believe Gale won’t approve of, until I end up forgetting about them altogether. I did not know that giving yourself up to someone in matrimony would be like giving up on yourself. 

I had always pictured my wedding out in the woods, but I can’t ask for that. It’s not proper. Our wedding will be held in a church, closed in by four stone walls and with a ceiling not as tall as the sky would be, but good enough. I settle on something attainable for Gale to give me. 

“Lamb stew.” 

He erupts in laughter, his grey eyes twinkling. “My, you’re easy to please.” He sweeps his arms out in front of him. “Katniss! Anything you want! I have enough money for us both and I would even throw some in the fire at your command. Any extravagance, any luxury is soon to be yours. Just say the words and you shall have what your heart desires.” 

He wants me to ask for diamonds, a custom dress from the Capitol with satin skirts and a train that drags along the ground behind me, a lacy veil embroidered with spun gold thread, or maybe a carriage procession with fine white horses, and perhaps I will, just to please him, to make him feel important and like he has some sway over my heart, even if that sway is purely bestowed through opening his checkbook. But when I think about my heart’s desires, all I picture are the arms of a baker, wrapped around me as I sleep. Strong, warm, and steady. How peaceful it would be to wake up beside him each morning and watch him blink the fogginess of sleep from his eyes. Will Peeta hold Marianne each night as he held me in the greenhouse? Will she even want him to? Or will she push him away? Will Peeta be banished to the cold side of the bed?

My thoughts are getting away from me again, away from Gale, so I drag them back. It’s a longer journey each time it happens. 

In the end, I ask for a ring with a gemstone the size of a robin's egg. That ought to satiate this need of Gale’s to spoil me rotten, and I’m prepared for such an order to take a long time, but Gale pulls out a small black box, smirking down at me as he cracks it open. He thought ahead.

The ring has a gold band with a large red diamond secured at its center. It’s so big it seems to pulse like an open wound and when he slips it onto my finger so that I may admire it in the light from the window, it throws reflective sparks dancing across the walls. 

“I knew you’d love it,” he says smugly. 

“What woman doesn’t love a diamond?” I reply, but for all the heat the diamond hints at in its depths, the ring feels cold on my finger. 

Soon after, I bid Gale farewell. It’s almost dinner time and Effie has informed me sleeping over at my fiancé’s house is now considered improper. 

“Think of what that implies!” she had scolded when I mentioned packing a suitcase. In a way, I feel relieved. I don’t believe Gale would hurt me or sneak into my room at night as I slept, but ever since I accepted him, his gentlemanly ways have diminished. He touches me more now, steals secret glances at my body when he thinks I’m not looking, or goes out of his way to make those glances obvious. He has no shame in regards to mine, so having an excuse to avoid him is welcome. Though I know it won’t last forever. 

He helps me up onto my horse, his expression souring when he sees I’m not riding sidesaddle, but Nightlock and I take off before he can chastise me. What good is it to start arguing before the wedding bells chime?

I take the ring off as soon as I’m home, thrusting it into a dresser drawer and curtly ordering for a bath to be drawn. I scrub the feeling of him from my skin, my scalp, and my face until I’m red and raw, and then I just lay my head back in the tub watching the swirling tendrils of steam curl in the air above me. Even though there are miles between Victor Greene and Templeton, an uneasy feeling bubbles up inside of me, pressing against my lungs and sinking my stomach as if Gale were in the room with me. The water is warm, filled with perfumed oils meant to soften my skin and detangle my hair, but I still don’t feel clean. It takes more than a bath to cleanse a filthy soul. 

Gale seems enamored, or at least, infatuated with me. How long will it take before he realizes I don’t feel the same way? What will he do with me then?

If only I had Peeta here with me. I’m always so confused when he’s away, and his presence seems to be the only thing I know for sure that I want. How ironic that soon, it will be the only thing in the world I can’t have. 

That night, Prim curls into bed with me. She’s silent as she lays in my arms, which is unusual for her. I chance a peek down at her face to see if she’s fallen asleep, but her eyes are wide open. 

“Do you love Mr. Hawthorne?” she asks. Her voice breaks the muted silence as the hull of a boat breaks glassy waters. 

I don't, and I probably never will, but I can't tell Prim that.

“I can grow to,” I say.

“But is he worthy of you?” 

“Where is this talk coming from, Prim?” 

“I just-” she stands from the bed and fixes me with a look I've never seen on her face before. 

Intensity. 

“I want you to get married, but for the right reasons. There's no point if you don't love him.” I want to tell her there is. There's no way to predict how many other offers of marriage I'll receive, if any. This may be my only chance and by marrying Gale I am in fact doing her a great service. I'm saving her from a life of ridicule and poverty. I'm doing this for her, in the hopes that she will be lucky enough to marry for love as she deserves. But something tells me this would be the wrong answer in Prim’s eyes. 

“Mr. Hawthorne is a good man, Prim. He'll treat me well and… I’ll have the finest dresses and I'll live in that enormous house. Marianne Cartwright will be so jealous...” 

My voice fades as I hear how shallow I sound. How fortune hungry my words ring when the exact opposite is true. Carriages and jewels and marble staircases are all well and fine, but I simply need a roof, a bed, and a door to the outside world and I'm certain I'd be content. I banish the budding memories of blonde curls and dimples and gentle painter’s hands aside before the pain can hit me, but it's too late. My heart spasms in my chest until all I can sense is a dull, suffocating ache behind my sternum. I let out a choked sob.

Prim is on me in a flash. As she strokes my hair, she begins humming a song our father used to sing to us when we awoke, crying from nightmares. Music usually comforts me, but this particular song just makes me sadder. 

I let myself break open in my little sister’s arms, just this once. Soon I'll pick the pieces back up and reconstruct myself until I'm shiny and new and absent of _him_. I will have to cut Peeta out, even if I tear myself apart in the process, because there's no use in longing for a man I cannot have. I can't afford to pine or be romantic. Not if such a great prospect is being handed to me on a silver platter. Not if I want to protect Prim. 

In the morning I rise, wipe the dried crust from my puffy eyes, and slip Gale’s ring back onto my finger. 

I hadn’t noticed when he first gave it to me, but it's a size too small.

* * *

There will come a time when we can no longer see each other, because once Gale and I marry, and Peeta and Marianne settle, I know we won’t be meeting on this hillside. But that day is not upon us yet, so I allow myself to go to him. We sit together silently. I want to hold him, tell him how much he means to me, perhaps rest my head on his chest and listen to the steady thumping of his heartbeat until it lulls me into something close to sleep, but a voice inside me reminds me this isn’t allowed. 

It’s past dinnertime at Victor Greene but I haven’t had an appetite recently so there’d be no point in heading home. Besides, I want to cherish what little time I have left with the baker’s boy. His wedding will be held the day after New Year’s, meaning I can practically count the days we have left together on my fingers. 

This seems to be our favorite meeting place lately, though I notice we’re not sitting in the same spot where we had our picnic. It's like we’re unconsciously trying to distance ourselves from the people we once were, all those months ago. It's slightly less painful that way. 

We let the wind bite at our faces until our cheeks are flushed and our ears red, but he doesn’t move to leave so neither do I. Gale’s ring sits beneath my glove, hidden away, but the sun is starting to set and I know the window for telling him of my engagement is quickly closing. After waiting long enough, I let the words out. 

He’s silent for a long time. His expression guarded, his body tense, giving me no clue as to what he’s thinking. It’s been so long since he’s moved that I almost think he didn’t hear me. But then he lets out a long, slow exhale and lays back in the grass. He had been holding his breath. Then he does the most peculiar thing. 

He smiles. 

I don’t know what reaction I expected Peeta to have, but it wasn’t this. 

“That’s wonderful, Katniss. Congratulations.” 

The word echoes mine from our last encounter, but where I had been sarcastic and bitter, he is sincere.

“That’s your response?” I sputter, almost angry. I knew Peeta wouldn’t be able to talk me out of it, not that he has a reason to, having Marianne and all. But I had thought...hadn’t he said he loved me? If he truly loved me I thought maybe he would try. 

He catches my puzzled expression and adopts one of his own. “You’ll be happy, won’t you? You’ll never want for anything. Any dress, any book, any seat at the theatre. Invitations to private balls in the Capitol...they’ll all be yours. Mr. Hawthorne can give you all of that.” 

It’s true. Upon marrying Gale I will be one of the wealthiest women in Panem. I’ll be adopted into the highest rings of society, painted and preened for appearances on his arm. Galas and government dinners and art exhibitions. Perhaps I’ll be begrudgingly accepted at first upon our trips into Town, since a rich country girl is still a country girl, even in the Capitol. But with time, my former titles will be forgotten. Miss Katniss Everdeen will be a fleeting memory in the eyes of Whitley, a ghost rather, replaced by Her Ladyship, Mrs. Katniss Hawthorne. I will be defined by my husband and my new family. My children will never go hungry, or lie awake at night dreading the hardships tomorrow will bring. If I manage to produce a son, he will grow to inherit a fortune, and by that time he’ll have no reason to listen to his aging mother, telling him to save or begging for restraint. He’ll spend his money as he likes, on what he likes. 

How far this little farm girl has come.

“That’s true, but…” my voice dies. I’ve come too close to confessing. It’d be too painful, for both of us, if I vocalized my feelings. With me engaged to another man and him soon to claim Marianne’s hand. Conveying my deepest desires would just remind me I can never have them. It’s already breaking me.

“But what?” he prompts gently. I’m struggling with the words as I draw my knees up to my chest. He reads me so well there’d be no point in lying to him, so I resort to the truth. Or at least part of it. 

“I never wanted to marry,” I whisper. 

My words don’t seem to shock him the way they would others. To Effie, to Prim, to the people in town, marriage is the natural way of things. Life makes no sense for a woman if the ultimate goal is not matrimony or producing cribs full of children or sitting pretty and quiet while the men do what they please, but Peeta smiles to himself and begins fiddling with a stray leaf in his hands. Somehow I know he understands me. He even starts laughing.

“What’s so funny about that?” I try to sound cross but my words spill out with laughter of my own. I can’t resist him. 

He looks towards me, his smile growing when our eyes lock. His expression is the sheepish kind, full of good-natured charm and a touch of embarrassment. The one I know I’ll miss the most. 

“Sorry, it’s just that...we’re very similar. You and I.” He turns the leaf over in his hands one last time and then presses it into my palm. His fingertips are warm where the leaf is brittle. 

We are, aren’t we? Me, a girl forced to marry by the rules and expectations of society and him, a boy whose freewill was stolen away before he could even walk. We’re both prisoners, destined to fates we did not choose ourselves. Now I see what was so funny to him. 

The two of us: we are absolutely tragic. 

With this realization hitting me squarely over the head, I start laughing harder and fall down in the grass beside him. Even with the weight of the world crashing in all around me and the threat of losing Peeta hanging heavy in the air, I feel lighter, as if knowing what awaits me will make me more prepared. 

We’re shoulder to shoulder as we turn our faces upwards. It's a magnificent sunset. The sky is filled with dandelion soft clouds and is generously streaked in brilliant golds and smoldering reds. The world we live in may be gray, but the infinite sky wheeling above us is on fire. The combination of cloud gazing and Peeta’s steady presence at my side distracts me from the sick feeling my engagement brought on, if only for a little while. We watch as the colors slowly bleed to indigo and the first stars appear, glittering like sugar crystals spilled on a black stone countertop. We talk but never quite touch, and I dread the moment I will have to let the baker’s boy go, for good. 

* * *

When I return home, both Effie and Haymitch are waiting for me in the front hall. Effie looks livid, or as livid as a woman in frilly skirts and pink lipstick can look, and Haymitch looks annoyed, like he would rather be in bed than reprimanding a wandering teenager. 

“Where have you been, Katniss? It’s late!” Effie demands. I’m surprised to see them. This isn’t the first time I’ve missed dinner, though I look up at the clock and realize this is the latest I’ve ever come home. 

Whoops.

“I was taking a walk.”

“Well, you missed dinner. We waited for you so long the food got cold!” Effie turns to Haymitch with her hands on her hips. “Mr. Abernathy, say something to her!” 

He scratches at his beard as he addresses me. “Were you out alone?”

“Yes,” I say a bit too quickly. 

He shoots me a look. He knows I’m lying, but he doesn’t push the fact. 

“Well, the girl’s home now so no harm done. I’m off to bed.” 

“Mr. Abernathy!” Effie exclaims, throwing her hands up in frustration. 

“ _Good night_ , Miss Trinket. Sleep tight, sweetheart.” He waves over his shoulder as he makes his way up the stairs. I move to follow him, exhaustion catching up with me, but Effie grabs my arm before I make it past her. 

“Oh no, you don’t. You’re not allowed up to bed until you tell me the truth,” she says. 

I narrow my eyes at her. “I was alone, Miss Trinket. I assure you.” 

She shakes her head. Her spring-like curls bounce. Her next words are hushed and low, and I almost believe I’m hearing her wrong. 

“I may not be the brightest woman who ever walked the earth, Katniss, but I’m not _stupid_. I know you’ve been seeing that Mellark boy.” 

For a split second, my heart stops beating. _If Effie knows of us…_

I quickly compose my face into an unreadable mask before I can give anything away. I don’t know what she knows, not until she reveals it to me, so perhaps there’s nothing to confess. Yes, Peeta and I have spent time together out in the countryside. Even I knew there was a possibility of someone spotting us, but I’m certain no one saw us in the garden. If someone had seen us kissing we’d have been in bigger trouble, and much sooner. The wedding was weeks ago and we had been hidden. But perhaps someone had recognized his coat, the one I had so clumsily wore back into the ballroom. I have no way of knowing what she knows, so I cover. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Miss Trinket.” 

“You were seen with him on the road, and then again the other day! Alone! You must know how this looks with your engagement to Mr. Hawthorne!” She’s utterly distressed, her eyes flooding with fear. 

So that’s it. We’ve been found out. 

“Who told?” I ask lowly. I have my suspicions, but I want her to confirm them. 

“Mrs. Elizabeth Martin mentioned that she saw you two on the road together and I’m not sure who saw you holding hands on the hill, but it’s all anyone is talking about! You know how dull the gossip is in winter! People are eating this up! Oh, Katniss. You need to be more careful with yourself!” Her eyes suddenly narrow. “Did he...did he _touch_ you?”

“No!” I exclaim, ripping my arm out of her grasp. “Peeta would never hurt me!”

The pucker of her lips tells me she doesn’t believe that. 

“I haven’t told Mr. Abernathy yet, and I’m not sure if Mr. Hawthorne knows but you can be assured he’ll get word of this. And soon.” 

“And what exactly does that mean, Miss Trinket?” I ask roughly, because her words are starting to sound like threats and I don’t react well to being threatened. 

“It means your purity is a topic of debate now.” 

“You mean Gale will retract his offer?” A paralyzing panic takes over my body. If Gale breaks our engagement, I will have nothing to protect Prim with. When a lady is discarded by one man, all others turn their gaze away. 

“No, I don’t think so. The news of your engagement is public knowledge in the Capitol now. I made sure of that since I had it printed in all the papers. Retracting his hand would cause this all to be a bigger scandal than it needs to be, and a man like Mr. Hawthorne doesn’t want that kind of attention. Most likely he’ll try to smother the rumors, meaning you can’t do anything further to invoke them. That means no more secret meet-ups.” She points an accusing finger at me. “Got it?”

I knew we didn’t have much time left together, but I still have so many things to say to Peeta. Yet, even my goodbyes are being ripped out from under me. 

“I’m not doing this to hurt you, Katniss, but you leave me no choice. I’m just looking out for you.”

Maybe it’s because I’m scared of losing Gale, leaving Prim and I truly on our own, or maybe it’s because in this moment, I hate Effie for doing her job so well. Even with the fallout from a scandal, I can’t escape him, and we’re not even married yet. I want to hurt her, this woman who’s sold me off, and the only way I can is with my words. I gather all the venom I can muster, enunciating each syllable with careful cruelty. 

“Stop pretending as if you care about my well-being. You are not my _mother_.”

I instantly regret it. 

Effie’s face crumples. Her eyes fill with tears. 

“I know that,” she says, but the usual conviction in her voice is gone. “I know that because I know my place, Katniss. Do you?”

She spins on her heel then, retreating to her suite, and I’m left alone in a darkened hallway with a bitter taste in my mouth and my coat still on. 

* * *

Like always, Effie is right.

Haymitch has taken Prim into town for some last-minute Christmas shopping and I’m in the greenhouse grinding herbs when Gale barges in. His presence is so abrupt that I barely have time to register that he didn’t knock. I feel violated somehow, even though this is my greenhouse, not my bedroom. 

“Stevenson said I’d find you here,” he says gruffly.

“What are you doing here?” 

“Does a man need a reason to visit his fiancé?” The words would be romantic if he wasn't scowling. 

“I guess not,” I concede. 

He's hovering near the doorway. His usual lightness gone. The air around him seems heavy and dark.

“Is something wrong, sir?” 

“We need to talk. Preferably in the house.” Without further discussion, he turns on his heel and I’m left to trail behind him into Victor Greene. He must know of Peeta, though I have no idea how the ladies in Whitley are twisting the story to make it seem more interesting. 

He leads me to the parlor as if this wasn’t my own home, but his. I’ve barely sat down on the couch before he slams the door and turns to face me. 

“I’ve recently heard some very disturbing rumors about you and the Mellark boy from town.”

I don’t flinch. Unlike with Effie’s ambush, I’m ready for him. 

“We’re friends, Gale.” 

He scoffs. “Yes, you two seem very close.” 

“I don't know what you mean.” 

“You're a terrible liar, Katniss.” He paces about, his hands tensely clasped behind his back. “It was his coat, wasn’t it? At Finnick’s wedding?”

I nod slowly. That I can’t deny. “He offered it to me because I was cold-”

“Because you were outside with him,” he snarls. “And what exactly were you two doing out there?” 

I purse my lips, not trusting anything convincing to come out. 

“Fine then. Keep your silence. But if I find out on our wedding night that I’ve bought damaged goods, you’ll have more than my disappointment to deal with.” 

The words are a slap to the face. My cheeks flood with heat at the insinuation and I open my mouth to retort, but he beats me to the punch. 

“Don’t fight me on this, Katniss. It won’t end well for you.”

“Are you threatening me because you believe I’ve been with another?”

“You wouldn’t be the first lady to fall prey to a lesser man.” He laughs suddenly. It’s a jarring sound from him after so much bitterness. “I even gifted you her necklace. How telling.”

Confusion sweeps over me. He means Georgiana Snow’s necklace of course, but I don’t have any time to puzzle out the pieces laid at my feet before he continues, drawing my attention away. 

“I have new rules for you.” 

“And what exactly do these new rules entail?”

“For starters, you can’t run about like some child,” he says. “It was cute when we met, and you're so young, I thought I’d let you get it out of your system. You’re a great shot, so I agree, it’s a waste, but if you’re to be a wife, you need to grow out of hunting and gallivanting about and take up proper hobbies. Hobbies that a young lady of your status should have.” 

“So what? You want me to take up needlepoint? Am I not allowed outside anymore?”

“Of course you’re allowed outside! But you need an escort. And you have to ride side-saddle. It’s incredibly vexing to watch you ride astride. It’s not proper for a young lady like yourself to do so!” He squares his shoulders and looks down his nose at me. “You are to be my wife and the mistress of Templeton. People will judge my family based on your actions now. Your role is to help manage my estate and bear my heirs. I can’t have you running off whenever you please.” 

“You mean you can’t let me make my own decisions-”

 _“I make the decisions now!”_ he bellows. His nostrils flare. The outburst has paralyzed me in my seat. “I’m to be your _husband_ and you will do as I say. If you disobey me then you’ll suffer the consequences.”

I’ve seen this aggression in him on occasion before, when he had been in a lively argument with Finnick, or on the cusp of losing a game to Johanna. I had thought it impassioned debate or a healthy dose of competitive spirit. Now I see.

He’s frightening. 

“And you can't see him anymore. I forbid it,” Gale adds as an afterthought. I'm stunned into silence. Effie already beat him to it and yet the order coming from him causes my blood to boil. I clench my fists in my lap. Effie, however much I’m mad at her for it, had been trying to protect me. Gale doesn’t want to protect me. He wants to control me. 

I repeat my only argument. It seems flimsy against Gale’s outburst. “He's my friend, Gale.”

“He's a promised man, Katniss,” he says in hushed mockery. “People have already started talking about you two.” He crosses to the fireplace and leans against the mantel. “Do you know what it makes me look like if I can't even control my own fiancé? What people are starting to say about me? I’m laughable!” 

“Gale-” I start to plead, but he turns and viciously cuts me off.

“From now on you will address me as ‘Mr. Hawthorne’ until I instruct you to do otherwise.” His tone is low. Dangerous. He raises his arm, and I'm suddenly terrified that he’s going to hit me. He thinks better of it and pinches the bridge of his nose instead, though the threat still hangs heavily in the air like a storm cloud. I experience an overwhelming urge to run but he's blocking the doorway. 

So that's it then. I am truly trapped. In this room, in this marriage, with no Peeta to alleviate the crushing burden of loneliness that's starting to press in on my heart. I'm having a hard time drawing in a breath. 

“I'm taking you to Town for the remainder of our engagement,” he says. He sounds exhausted but I won’t spare him any pity. “Maybe spending enough time among proper people of society will teach you your place.” And then he's wrenching the door open and flying out of the room. I watch his coattails disappear around the corner. 

Town. 

He’s dragging me away to the Capitol. 

I don't remember standing from the couch but I suddenly find myself sprinting barefoot through the woods. Sharp stones and branches dig painfully into the soft flesh of my feet but I don't dare stop. My skirts and my hair catch on brambles and thorns and I'm forced to rip them free, tearing my dress in the process. The dry heaving starts as soon as I arrive at my usual spot. The hill Peeta and I have spent so much time on. The landscape is shadowy, the sky laden with dark, heavy clouds. The beginnings of a blizzard, and like a fool, I’ve walked straight into it. 

I empty the contents of my stomach next to a large clump of dying weeds and feel wetness on my face. I think it's my tears but quickly realize it's started to snow once the bitterness in the air hits me. Lifting myself off my knees, I watch the dreamy cascade of snowflakes build into an all-out storm. My dress is coated in white, the melting flakes clinging to my skin, and my hair is plastered to my neck in clumps but I don't dare move for cover. Not even a bone-rattling gust of wind, one that threatens to topple me over, can rouse me. 

Instead, I just stand in the storm and stare at the tiny stone bakery far off in the distance. Through the thick swirl, I can vaguely see his windows spilling over with buttery golden light. I almost smell the aroma of baking bread in the frigid air and feel the hot press of burnt loaves in my hands. An overwhelming sense of hope rises within me, but then the cold fingers of snow dampen my underclothes and I’m jerked back to reality.

I feel something inside of me die on that hill. 

I quietly bury it.


	16. The Capitol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katniss travels to the Capitol.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING:  
> This chapter includes an extremely brief mention but no explicit description of underage prostitution and the insinuation of rape. There is also minor alcohol consumption. 
> 
> Note that there will be non-con and insinuation of rape in upcoming chapters. 
> 
> Thank you for taking the time to read this,  
> Stay safe friends,
> 
> -Izza

When I was a little girl who still believed in fairies and magic, I pictured the Capitol a great city of marble buildings and wide streets paved in gold. A metropolis of finery where no one within the city limits went to bed hungry or cold. As I grew up, my vision of the capitol went from shining to dirty. I learned of the wealthy elite class that hoard their fortunes, spending what they will on luxury while they leech the life from those they deem lesser citizens. How ironic that I venture here in the hopes of joining their ranks. 

As Gale and I pass over Wreiner Bridge and ride through the city, we see the ramshackle docks that have popped up about the fish wharves, housing the people deemed unfit for life in the upper ring, and bear witness to the mess that accumulates when hundreds of thousands of people live in close quarters. Though it’s not all bad. I’ve never seen so little of the sky, but there is still beauty woven here amongst the muck and smog. 

The Capitol perches on the country’s southern coastline, a two and a half day's journey from landlocked Whitley. The cityscape is dotted with holy cathedrals of shining white stone and crisscrossed by streets full of restaurants and shops bustling with activity until late into the night. We pass the towering facades of museums, dance halls, symphonies, public libraries, universities, and an ancient arena where there had once been gladiator fights, now a monument to a time when Panem was savage rather than refined. Every window sill, every column, every stone step is coated in a fine layer of snow, though on the streets where carriages and people make their way about, the white has devolved into an off-putting gray sludge. 

There are parks though nothing as grand or as wildly unkempt as my woods. The trees don’t sprout where they fall, but where someone planted them in straight lines. The ponds are uniform, no jagged banks full of nesting waterfowl or choked with weeds. Every scrap of nature here is manicured to perfection under all that snow, as if the city were one great garden. 

Then there are the people! How garish their makeup is, how jaunty their conversations are. Every facial expression I spot exchanged between Capitolites seems comical and absurd. They twist their mouths into such unsettlingly wide smiles when speaking, or raise their brows to the crest of their hairline when in shock. Widened eyes, blinding white teeth, sculpted updos, and beards trimmed with patterned precision. I recognize their mannerisms from my time with the Templeton party, though I don’t remember Johanna or Finnick ever dramatically clutching at their chests and fanning themselves when spotting a particularly fine dress in a shop window. I look at the clothing of the more fortunate, observing that Elizabeth Martin had indeed been right in her news of the Capitol’s latest fashion trend. Fur _is_ in.

There are poverty-stricken people too. Men and women and children dressed in patchy coats and fraying wool gloves, all huddled together in the shadows of buildings off the main roads or in alleyways between seedy bars and hotels, trying to weather one of the coldest winters I can remember. One among the masses, a pretty young girl with strawberry red hair and freckles, no more than fifteen, is led away from her group by a man with a shiny copper coin between his fingers. A little boy in a tufted hat, the pom-pom resembling a rabbit’s tail, clings to her leg. She shakes him off and sends him back with a stiff wave of her hand. She's pale and her lips are blue from cold, but there’s bravery in her walk. My heart clenches when I see her eyes though, laced through with fear. It's the kind of panic I see in a kill before I let my arrow loose. If I was older when Prim and I were starving, surely I would have been forced to do the same as her. Our carriage turns a corner, but not before I see the man press the girl up against a stone wall. 

* * *

I’m dumped at one of the Hawthorne’s townhouses and left to my own devices. The house is a charming three stories with a brick facade and a freshly painted interior, deep carpets and softly cushioned furniture, pristine bathrooms of white tile, gilded wall sconces, tastefully lavish decor of gold and burgundy, and a view onto Binney Street, full of people and the jolly ring of holiday cheer. But as comfortable and accommodating as the house appears, I find my stay to be dreadfully bleak. The Hawthornes had not extended an invitation to Effie, though there are at least five other bedrooms she could have been put up in. 

As lonely as I am, it would be improper for Gale to stay in the house with me. We haven’t exchanged more than a few words since his outburst, even sitting in tense silence the entire journey here. I thought the blizzard would have blocked the roads so I’d at least get to spend Christmas with Prim, but Gale had insisted we leave as soon as the storm abated, even with the roads in such poor condition. 

Haymitch had made to argue, snarling about how we’re not wed yet and that technically, he’s still my legal guardian. But I insisted I wanted to go to the Capitol, trying to convince him that it was partially my idea. 

“And there’ll be plenty of time for city visits in the future, sweetheart. But these are the last few months I have with you under my roof and I don’t like Mr. Hawthorne cutting them short.”

“I’ll be back…”

“Not as often,” he had said, the gruffness in his voice softening to something of sadness. He looked me over, just a child acting grown. 

“I’m not your biological father,” he said slowly. “But I consider you one of my own.” 

I had nodded. No one could ever replace my real father, that sweet singing farmer who I now only see in my dreams. But Haymitch is as close as I’ve got, and my heart ached thinking about what I’ll do when he eventually passes too. 

“My life was meaningless before you and your sister came into it,” he had murmured, holding me securely by the shoulders. “So believe me when I say, that if you don’t want to marry Mr. Hawthorne, I will support you. Even if Miss Trinket tries to talk you back into it or people in town say nasty things about you behind your back, you will _always_ have me.” 

Always. 

The word turned over in my head. I wanted to believe him. That the life Prim and I had at Victor Greene with its freedom and comfort and three glorious meals a day would last forever if I stayed, but it wouldn’t. We both knew this. If I refused and went back on my word to Gale, where would that leave Prim?

Doomed, that’s where.

So in exchange for my sister’s future, I spend Christmas alone. 

I haven’t had a real conversation with anyone in days since, to my horror, all the servants in this house are mute. Well, not mute. They can make noises. I hear them humming in the kitchen as they prepare my meals, but they can’t speak. Their tongues have been cut out, a fact revealed to me by Gale when he ordered one of them to open his mouth first thing upon my arrival. 

“They’re either traitors of the state, criminals, or whores,” he said to me when I had recoiled at the sight of the butler’s mutilated tongue. “But don’t worry. They’re tame now. And you don’t talk to them unless issuing an order.” 

Not only can Avoxes not speak, but they’re forbidden from reading, writing, and having children. Each and every one of them has been sterilized in some government laboratory just in case they break the rules, or more likely, unspeakable things are done to them in their service. The great families of the Capitol wouldn’t want the offspring of their servants running about. 

They float around the house like ghosts, avoiding my eye contact or plastering themselves to the walls when I walk in on them drawing my baths or lighting the fires. They scare easily, probably because they’ve been mistreated in their service under the Hawthornes. They all avoid me. Except for one. 

Charlotte.

She’s perhaps a few years older than I am and is at least a head and a half taller. She has thickly lashed eyes, as dark blue as the rising banks of a river during a thunderstorm, and her hair is pinned in a tight coil at the base of her skull, except for at night when it falls in delicate waves past her shoulders. She seems so young, almost a mirror held up to myself, that her presence in the house has become somewhat off-putting. When I see her turn a corner, a flash of black hair or translucent skin, there’s a bone-chilling moment when I believe she’s my own phantom, ripped from the tethers of my body and returned to wander the halls. She isn’t scared to look me in the eye, which I find both comforting and eerie after so much time being avoided. 

Even as unsettling as the dead silence of her company is, I find myself requesting her service more and more often. She is the only one I allow to dress me for bed, or plait my hair, or bathe and buff me. One night, as she’s brushing out my tangles, I make a passing comment resembling a joke and jump in my chair when I hear her laugh. It’s a hurried exhale. Shallow in comparison to Haymitch’s throaty guffaws or Prim’s giggling, but it’s something. After that, I consider Charlotte a friend. 

Gale starts visiting me more frequently, though it’s usually only for a few minutes as he asks if I’m comfortable or if I need anything. He brings me gifts of imported tea and pastries filled with exotic fruit filling, but I don’t touch them. The pastries just remind me of Peeta back in Whitley, days away from exchanging his vows. I try my best to shut him out. Thinking of Peeta will do me more harm than good at this point.

It is during a moment like this, physically with Gale but mentally far, far away that he starts talking of his father.

“You know, when he was alive he had been close friends with Prime Minister Snow. When he died, Snow became almost like a second father to me, when he wasn’t running the country of course.” He turns towards me, demanding my attention as his slate eyes glitter. “He said to me, ‘boy, when you marry, find a woman who challenges you or you’ll grow bored of her. Mistresses don’t keep your bed warm like a proper wife will. Though now and again, they’ve been known to set it on fire.’” 

Effie always applauded a woman who could hold her tongue, saying it was an art. But I’ve never been much of an artist. My words come out bitter and unbidden. 

“You plan on keeping mistresses?” I don’t know why I press him, or why I care, because it’s already clear this union isn’t grounded in mutual feelings, but I can’t help the rising notes of betrayal in my tone. 

“Don’t twist my words, Katniss. I thought it was funny, and you look like you need a good laugh.”

“Ha ha,” I deadpan.

He rises from his chair and I shrink back into mine. 

I’m afraid of Gale. Especially when he shows brief moments of kindness only to chase them down with venom. His soft wit and smiles had been so easy for him to dole out in Whitley, but have now been granted to me very rarely. They’re locked away behind scowls and terse comments. What a con artist he turned out to be and what a fool I am for falling for it. 

“What I _meant_ was that you challenge me. I don’t always like it, I’ll admit. When I found out you had formed an attachment to that village boy, I considered breaking our engagement. But then I thought of Snow’s words. What is love if you don’t fight for it?” I leave him standing in his own silence until his face twists darkly and he sneers down at me. “I know you don’t love me. I’m not blind, Katniss. But I think you’re lovely. A piece of work perhaps, but there’s nothing money and time can’t fix. And by God, I will have your affections, even if I have to fight you for them.” 

Even with the ominous settling of his statement and everything it promises, a cold smile rises to my lips. If only he knew, you can’t wrest love from somebody’s heart when they’ve already given it away. But he’ll learn. Once our children are born and my true indifference revealed to him, I decide I won’t object to him taking mistresses. In fact, I think I’ll encourage he have them if it means less time spent in his bed.

Just one son. That’s all I need to give him and then surely he’ll leave me alone. 

The door opens a crack and Charlotte comes in carrying two new logs for the fire. She seems abnormally tense as she crosses the room to place them on the hearth. Gale eyes her with measured indifference though the way he clenches a fist tells me her presence bothers him. 

“Charlotte,” he says her name like he doesn’t like the taste of it in his mouth. “Fetch a blanket for Miss Everdeen. She’s feeling particularly frigid today. Oh, and some wine for us both. Apparently, the tea I brought isn’t to her liking.” 

“I’m not thirsty,” I croak, but he pretends not to hear me. The last thing I want to be in Gale’s presence is drunk but Charlotte must obey. She fetches us the wine and then a blanket that’s been draped over a chair on the far side of the room. She deftly moves to wrap it around me, but as she draws near I see her trembling. 

Is it because of Gale? What has he done to make her so afraid of him? 

I can’t ask her. Not now. So I press her hand reassuringly between my own when she passes me my wine, though it’s only for a fleeting moment before she has to pull away. Gale holds out his glass and we toast to our engagement. He watches as I lift the rim to my lips, chuckling when I wince at the bitter first sip. 

I’ve never liked wine, or spirits for that matter. I see what effect they have over Haymitch, sending him into spirals of self-pity and unintelligible conversations with the walls. He drinks to forget where I mean to remember. 

Gale urges me on. I sip the wine until my head is swimming and my limbs feel full of lead. He moves to sit by me on the couch, his face flushed. He’s had plenty more than me, but he’s not slurring or stuttering. He’s clearly accustomed to drinking, whereas I am not. There’s a quiet moment between us when he tries to take my hand, but I manage to wriggle away, putting my glass down sharply on the coffee table. I’m suddenly aware that if I linger any longer in this room, I’ll regret it. 

“I’m tired.” I make to stand, swaying slightly on my feet. The furrowing of Gale’s brow reveals that he’s disappointed. He was hoping for affection perhaps. We haven’t even shared a kiss yet and I know that must be pressing on his mind, but he nods and calls for Charlotte to lead me upstairs. I feel the weight in my chest lighten as we make it onto the shadowy landing of the second floor and I’m led off to bed. 

Though I hear Gale leave in his carriage, I lock my door that night. 

* * *

_The moon glows like a beacon over the land, a vast expanse of rolling green bordered by a thick, gnarled wood of sturdy oak and wizened yew. There’s a presence here hidden away beneath the silver-tipped branches. Someone I can’t quite place in my memory, but she’s out there somewhere. The shadow of her flutter stirs inside my empty womb. Earth that has yet to be tilled. She radiates heat like the sun, rising in waves off the ground, slowly thawing the pieces of myself that have frozen over._

_Where are you, little one? I can’t see your face and I don’t know your name. Perhaps you are someone I know? Will know? You are neither of those things or maybe you are both of those things all at once. There’s no way to tell. All I feel, deep in my bones, is that you’re near and you need me. You need me desperately and yet I can’t find you._

_I crash through the shadowy underbrush, following the sound of the infant's terrified cries._

_And then I spend eternity searching for her._

* * *

I wake drenched in cooling sweat, the dream already slipping from my memory like water through outstretched fingers. The last traces of alcohol are still running their course through my body, but where the details are fuzzy, I feel the residue of grief clinging to the edges of my consciousness like a heavy mist. 

My father insisted dreams have meaning, that the strange night visions would outline my path in life, but Haymitch had always brushed dreams off as nonsense. “Tricks of a wandering mind”, he called them, as he attempted to calm Prim or I down from nightmares. Where my father, poor as he was and encouraged by the world to grow bitter because of it, was full of whimsy and optimism, rich old Haymitch, never going without a meal his entire life, grew cynical. Though I suppose it makes sense. Cynicism does not sprout in empty bellies but in empty hearts. Before he died, my father had us. Haymitch had no one. 

I wonder about that often. I’ve seen his old portraits even though he tries to hide them beneath cloth sheets in the attic. Haymitch, once upon a time, had been a real looker. Sharp features, dark hair, mischievous eyes that seemed to glitter with some immortal challenge. It’s strange to picture him a boy, fresh-faced and arguably innocent, when I’ve only ever known him a tired old man. After his parents and younger brother died in a freak carriage accident, he had no one to share his life with. He doesn’t tell me about his youth since he didn’t have much of one, but in his drunkenness, I’ve heard him slur longingly of a girl, though her whereabouts remain elusive. 

Haymitch is old now and he doesn’t have to be inebriated to reveal to me he’s given up on finding love. At least, the romantic kind, because he did manage to find us, didn’t he? He’s not the mushy affectionate type, but he shows Prim and I he loves us in his own strange ways. With painful flicks to the forehead or the frenzied ruffling of hair as we pass one another in the hallway.

I miss that sour old man almost as much as I miss Prim. What would he think if he saw me now? His runaway bird seduced into some pretty cage. 

It’s still dark outside with only a faint lightening of the horizon to hint towards daybreak. I should try to get back to sleep but something tells me that will be impossible. Restlessness has taken ahold of me. I lift myself from the bed, pad across the floor, and make to splash my face with cold water from the bathroom across the hall when I hear something. 

It’s like the snuffling of an animal and I almost think it’s coming from inside the walls when I hear it again. I tiptoe a door down to my dressing room. It’s large and full of racks for clothes, shelves for shoes, hat boxes, and drawers filled with socks, corsets, and my underthings. The room is a glorified closet, larger than my greenhouse back home. I could only laugh when Gale had presented it to me since I don’t have nearly enough clothes to demand a storage space of this size. Most of the racks stand bare. That’s why it’s easy to spot her, kneeling and huddled over the ground. 

“Charlotte?” I ask tentatively. 

She startles. Her eyes are red and puffy like she’s been crying for a long time. She’s wearing a nightdress of yellowing cloth that had once been white. It stands out starkly next to my pearlescent silk robe. 

“What’s happened?” I ask her, an edge of fear creeping into my voice. 

Usually, she’s stoic. The most emotion I’ve seen from her is a closed-lip smile or a dignified nod of her head. Crying is brand new and it scares me more than I’d like to admit. 

She sweeps something heavy behind her frame, hiding it from view, and clasps her hands together as if pleading for my forgiveness. I press a palm to her shoulder to move her aside and find…

The necklace?

There, on the floor, is the golden box with the necklace that had once belonged to Georgiana Snow. The box’s lid is wide open and the gems wink prettily in the dim morning light from the window. I’m so confused with trying to piece the situation together that the emotion must show clear as day on my face. Charlotte opens her mouth in a reflex I can only explain as the reflex to speak. I hear her voice for the first time, as cracking and ugly as the creaking of rusty hinges. She hasn’t used it in so long and with no tongue she sounds like some wounded animal calling out for help. It’s almost like braying the way her voice rises and falls. A sickening wave of pity rolls in my stomach. 

I shush her as she reaches to grip my wrist with both hands. I’m trying to calm her down but she’s hysterical. Her fingernails dig into my flesh, leaving crescent-like indents, and her eyes burn so brightly as they meet mine that for a heart-stopping moment, I’m afraid that she means to hurt me. That she somehow blames me. But the feeling passes as she dissolves into tears once more and lessens her grip. 

I lead her to the kitchen, my hands trembling as I pull a chair out for her. I don’t know what to do. She can’t tell me what’s wrong and there’s no way I’m going to guess it, so in a moment of pure curiosity, or perhaps rebellion, I decide to break the law. 

She’s still crying, wet wracking sobs, as I go to grab a piece of paper and a quill pen, but she quiets when I present them to her. She knows what I’m asking and she shakes her head sharply. Her dark blue eyes fill with fear. And why shouldn’t they? The punishment for an Avox found writing is a hanging in the square. If they’re lucky. 

But it’s no use. If it comes down to that, I’ll take the blame. In the meantime, I have to know. 

“Please,” I urge. “Please tell me what’s wrong. We’ll burn the paper afterward. I promise. Your secret is safe with me.” It takes more coaxing, the building up of the fire from dwindling coals to hearty crackling flames before she even entertains picking up the pen. When she does, I give her the space to write. 

Her handwriting is shaky, hard to read, probably because she hasn't written in years, but I can clearly make out the words as she slides the paper towards me.

_I’m sorry that you found me that way. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I came across that necklace a few days ago when I was cleaning._

She pulls the paper back but hesitates to continue, biting her lip. I urge her on with a nod and a small smile. 

_You don’t look anything alike but you remind me of my sister. And finding her necklace in your possession hurt me more than I thought I could hurt after she died._

Perhaps it’s the wine still tainting my bloodstream, or perhaps it’s the shock of what Charlotte has revealed to me that prohibits my brain from putting two and two together, but when understanding dawns on me a moment after I’ve finished reading, I feel my blood thicken like sludge in my veins. 

Charlotte, a mutilated servant, is First Lady Georgiana Snow’s sister. 

I’ve only seen one portrait of Georgiana, long ago when her obituary was still circulating in the newspapers. From the black ink and off-white parchment, I beheld her beauty. You’d have to be blind not to. With porcelain skin, pale hair that hung in delicate ringlets, almond-shaped eyes of what I could only assume were blue, full flower bud lips, a saber straight nose, and a figure like a goddess, she was a lady valued above all others. “The rose of Panem,” as her husband had referred to her in all his mourning speeches. “Plucked from this earth too soon.”

There is a similarity between her and Charlotte. The willowy silhouette of their figures perhaps, the structure of their faces, or the curve of their lips. A bleak starkness in their eyes that seems to be inherited, not taught. 

“What really happened to her?” I whisper. There’s a sinking feeling in my gut, like I’ve swallowed a stone. Charlotte’s grief, her fear of Gale, the very fact that she, the sister of Georgiana and therefore a member of what was once an esteemed family of the Capitol being forced into servitude and mutilated at the hands of the state has me questioning the convenient narrative of a woman dead from childbirth. And what had Gale said?

_You wouldn’t be the first lady to fall prey to a lesser man. I even gifted you her necklace._

What does it all mean?

She hesitates to write and instead says something in the sign language I’ve seen the servants use to communicate. A fist raised, swung at chest height. A hand wrapped around her throat. But it’s clear I don't understand her as I shake my head. 

Charlotte purses her lips, her expression filling with resolve as she grabs the pen again, this time with hardened conviction. She scribbles something down and holds up the paper for me to see. It’s one word. 

_Murdered._

And then she rips the page into tiny pieces and throws the scraps into the fire.


	17. *Update*

Hey guys!

I wanted to update you all on the progress of this fic. I've decided that I'm going to finish writing the entire story (anywhere between 5-7 more chapters and an epilogue) before I start uploading again. This is because 1.) I want to make sure the storyline makes sense and that I don't write myself into a corner, 2.) the next portion of the story deals with sensitive topics and I want to be careful while writing them, and 3.) I'd like to update once a week but can only sustain that schedule if the story is pre-written. 

I know how this story ends and I've written a huge portion of the epilogue so stay tuned for that. 

Thank you all for kudos and comments. Every time I get an email notification from AO3 my heart sings.

As always, stay safe friends<3

-Izza


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